


Enough to reroute our paths

by wailing_whale



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Bartenders, John is going to get himself killed by Dave if he's not careful, M/M, Pilots, Roaring Twenties, Slow Romance, Speakeasies, World War I, Written for Camp Nanowrimo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wailing_whale/pseuds/wailing_whale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1922 --<br/>A young pilot walks into a bar. He orders chocolate milk and accidentally begins to ruin the bartender's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday April 29, 1922

After years of idle observation and of days, bored, spent listlessly watching the environment he habitually resided in, Dave Strider could hesitantly conclude that he didn't particularly enjoy working at his place of employment.

There were few real, recognizable merits that came along with working at a popular, though covert and trifle small speakeasy. As with any sort of occupation that shadowed the grittier life styles of the city, there were some individuals who idolized the potential job position, who found baseless glory in the polished brass bar stools and the thick glass front doors, those who glorified the thought of living in a glittering and dangerous world of defiance and receiving a free pass into the excitement of it.

Dave Strider was not such a man.

He didn't like the overly chatty people that came in sometimes, the snobs or the arrogant, those who sauntered in with date on their arm and drink in their hand, cigarette holder hanging precariously off their lip and nooses of fine pearl danging around their neck. He didn't like how some thought themselves to be of some sort of higher class, worthy of the opportunity to have a drink in the age of prohibition when in reality, anyone with a few spare dollars could get a gulp. He didn't particularly care for the allure of the aesthetics of the place or any of the glamour that others so easily preceived in this life. In the early days, he had initially seen the contrast of warm, golden rum against the darkness of the bar face and saw beauty in it, even art, but the sight had lost its appeal over time. It was gradually reduced to nothing more than a dull object to him, or a means to an end. Mundane.

He didn't like the way the bar now had to run undercover from the authorities, wistfully missing the previous way that the store operated, when just anyone could walk in off the street and buy a drink and he didn't need to scrutinize them, didn't need to wonder if they were a genuine customer or a deceptive bundle of plain clothes and flat feet. The place had previously been a real, legally recognized bar, and much of the original infrastructure was kept intact. The main difference was that the sign out front now housed the words "R&R Club – Eatery and Entertainment" instead of it's previously proud title of simply, "R&R Pub." It was a technicality, really, that had made them change it, and if a police officer happened to wander in at any hour of the day, which wasn't at all uncommon, anyone behind the bar would be sure to quickly keep the sight of illicit alcohol out of harm's way.

He didn't care for the stiff collared shirt he wore either, nor his apron, nor his shined shoes that fit just a little off of perfection, their previous owner being the bartender that had worked this position before him. He might have made a fuss about this to one of the two satiric sibling owners of the bar, most notably Roxy, whom was the more approachable of the two sisters with her wide-mouthed disposition and affinity for bubbling, pink champagne. He might have, but Dave thought himself to be particularly well adapted to ignoring things that bothered him.

There was one thing though, that if hard pressed for an honest answer, Mr. Strider could _always_ declare as the least irritating, and for the majority of the time, most enjoyable part of his job.

That thing was a man, simply enough. He was scruffy around the jaw and did not dress well, Dave thought, though that did nothing to discredit his opinion of him. He wore an oft patched and well stained tweed jacket, the ends of his suit frayed and pilled slightly on the right side, near where his hand swung down and brushed against the fabric as he walked. His gait was off kilter, a sort of comfortable limp that he had possessed ever since Dave initially saw him on his first day on the job, nearly three years ago. One leg would come up rather quickly, landing with a stunted thump, and then the other would follow at a slower, leisurely pace, gaining the lost ground with ease and a slight outward swing. Dave always thought that the man ought to have gotten himself a cane, but he never made mention of it, figuring that if it was important enough, the man would get one for himself. He was spry and quick to laugh at any of Dave's awful jokes, and in his opinion, that was reason enough to keep someone around for good.

Tonight, on a lonely Tuesday evening, the scent of freshly dried rain carried into the room from yesterday's thunderstorm and filled the atmosphere with lightness and buoyancy. The man clomped into the familiar bar with his usual boots, this time smattered in a light speckling of grey dust, the mud of the previous night still sticking to the sides of the leather and braided cotton laces. He sat in his seat, which everyone was very certain was _his_ seat, for there was no one else that had occupied that position since the bar's opening. Right at the corner of the bar, second from the end and next to the stack of upside down, drip-drying glasses which sparkled from their time in the sink, he sunk his elbows on the glossed counter and looked inexplicably pleased with himself, which he usually did.

The middle aged man greeted Dave in his usual manner, a slight little wave sent his way and a wide beam, all of his dingy teeth on proud display from behind his stretched lips.

"Hey, Mayor," Dave greeted with an easy grin. "Was wondering if you'd even be showing up tonight – you're late." He offered his palm out to him, upside down and flat, and Mayor gave it a light smack in greeting.

The two of them were adapted to handling one sided conversations, Dave providing most of the comments and Mayor making gestures or hitting things or changing his expression to show how he felt. Dave found it all charming in a silly, childish sort of way, though he would never say that outright.

Speaking to a mute had initially been something new to Dave when he met this long time regular on his first few shifts on the job, but he soon found that he was particularly adept at speaking more than enough for two people and resultantly, the two of them had never encountered any real issues because of the barrier. Despite the fact that Dave had never received any explanation for the muteness, he knew it was possible that Mayor simply never had the ability to speak. He did have a funny, wheezy laugh so maybe it had been some kind of accident, a cosmic crime committed against him once upon a time in a land far far away. Dave had never asked. It had never been important.

"You're always here on time, you know. Let me guess why you weren't here on the dot, regular hour," Dave continued, already tipping a bottle of his favourite scotch into a glass for him, "Bus was late?"

The Mayor make a very unamused face, as if Dave's guessing was awful and a little embarrassing, and then shook his head.

"Yeah, thought so. Buses here don't really run late all that often. Huh. You saw someone you knew along the way and stopped to chat with them?"

As he spoke, he thought of the elder co-owner of the speakeasy, Rose, who possessed a characteristically curled lip and brandished sly, at times snide, remarks, her pen nib being leagues mightier than the average broadsword. She and Dave debated endlessly it seemed over his insensitivities aimed towards others, how he could be clumsy with his words, steering his comments into insulting territory at times. He supposed that really, she was right, as she was on most topics, but he had called her a nosey broad and let the conflict be dismissed at the time, claiming he could keep tabs on his own social interactions, thank her very much.

Mayor only rolled his deep set eyes at the suggestion and once again gave his bearded chin a wag.

"That one was a bit far out in left field, I know, but you knew what I meant," Dave excused, sliding the now full glass over. It reflected the crystalline lights above them, reaching an almost chandelier level of glitz when mixed with the warm honey colour of the drink. Mayor grabbed the glass with a small nod, and then took a few adventurously large gulps.

"So you're not gonna tell me where you were then?"

Mayor kept looking at his drink and he poked with one finger at the floating ice cubes, letting them sink and then rise up again and then poking them down once more. He shrugged.

Dave sighed and flicked his eyes away, not entirely irritated "Yeah, fine, I can take a hint."

Sometimes Mayor was stubborn like this, cryptic and annoying, but it never seemed to be about anything important, just small trifles, things that in the grand scheme of things, truly never did matter. Sometimes, admittedly, he did keep silent on things that Dave genuinely would have wanted to know, like for instance what Mayor's real name was. He had never been told, and when he asked around concerning the topic with the Lalonde girls, they had told him that they too didn't know his birth name. Apparently the term Mayor was given to him because once he had found a discarded newspaper heading, titled "New Mayor of Chicago Welcomed into Office", and had clipped the title and fastened it to his tweed jacket with pins and a few pieces of loose string. Allegedly, he had proudly worn the the pendant for weeks, pointing to it for all to see as he greeted them. The name had stuck, even though the paper clipping was now long gone, fallen off or perhaps weakened by the rain and elements.

It wasn't particularly hard to fall back easily into their usual conversation, Dave prodding and asking and carrying the direction of the topic, Mayor reacting wildly and gesturing and easily drawing the attention of the few people lingering in the pub. The both of them passed the rest of the evening like usual, burning late into the night till the wall clock chimed, once, twice, twelve times, midnight. Mayor was working on his third drink of the night by the time Dave stopped giving him a fresh supply of more, but he knew that it took much more than a few glasses to knock the burly man over. Dave, however, was well aware of his own rather embarrassing alcohol limits and didn't ever drink on his shifts. It was one of the girls' rules of the bar actually, though he knew that Roxy broke it on more than a few occasions during her solo shifts.

Everyone who had filtered into the barroom over the evening had by now drifted out, too mindful of the fact that Wednesday morning loomed over them like a rusted, skeletal bridge, moaning and straining in the wind and threatening a stressful day on the job tomorrow. It usually happened like that on weekdays, the entire place emptying out rather suddenly and leaving only the bartender and his companion in their respective spots, chatting till official closing time made itself known.

Sometimes, Dave wondered what Mayor did in the day, and why he never seemed to have any pressing matters to attend to in the morning that would require a good night's sleep. He had never asked. He probably just didn't get much sleep – the darkened yellow tinge pervading the skin around his eyes was proof of that. Dave knew the appearance of a chronically tired man well, for his own brother used to be something of an insomniac. He had always been staying up till the tiny hours in the morning, waiting till the dawn broke and the fresh streaks of sunlight coursed over the sky before he would turn in for a few hours of restless sleep. It had constantly confused Dave as to why a man would do that to himself, but he supposed that it was really none of his business.

 

It was starting to seem as if no one else would be finding themselves in the warmth of R&R's bar for the night, everyone off the streets to avoid the ghostly howls of wind and whipped up leaves that all cities seemed to house in the dead of a spring night, left over from the winter that had just now begun to thaw. Dave was content to stay inside for as long as Mayor wanted to though, not looking forward to the frigid walk to his small apartment. His elbows rested loosely on the counter, butt perched on his own wooden version of the streamlined bar stools that lined the other side of the counter.

"All I'm sayin' though, is that I just don't want to dance with some dolled up, powdered and pigtailed porcelain doll who'll get grouchy if I forget to kiss her hand after the song's done. I mean hey, you know I like music. And I _like_ dancin' too. I just don't like the idea of spending that fun time with a stuck up broad."

Mayor was listening with something close to rapt attention, his hands up and cupping his ruddy and stubbled cheeks, the lines and wrinkles of his weathered skin creased into an absent smile. He nodded, once, to let Dave go on.

"Like see, last week? Went to that old club down past Main. I was just sitting and having a sandwich – it was chicken by the way –" Mayor nodded in consenting appraisal. "–and I'm just sitting there, and some girl, I don't even know if she was out of school yet, for chrissakes, she dragged me out to dance. I can't really just say no, can I? Now I go to clubs sometimes, right. But I don't go to dance with no glossed eyed girl with the gall to press up against me like I'm some kinda whore for rent. If I dance, it should just be a dance, just some movement and fun and nothing else. I don't want to go there for some damn penny romance novel to live through. Well, I don't know, maybe I'm just turning into some grumpy old man."

Mayor huffed a short, wheezy laugh at that and began pointing to himself. Dave could guess where he was going with it, that if _he_ was getting old, then Mayor himself must be some kind of ancient relic. It was actually a little funny, since he was nearly double Dave's age, but Mayor didn't get to finish his miming before the front door to the bar cracked open.

There's something stalling about a door opening slowly, its hinges creaking and arresting attention as everyone in the room turns to see just who might be on the other side. Mayor put his hands down as they both glanced over, him with considerably more visible interest than Dave, who only looked minorly irritated that their private conversation was being infringed upon.

A man walked in, and for a moment Dave was halted in the sentence that was already formed on his lips, a reminder that the place was closed for the night.

A business of any kind with a store front edging onto a busy street saw all kinds of people walk through its doors in an average day. Sometimes men in stiff business suits, sometimes women in loose, tiered dresses, cigarettes daintily held in between their red tinged nails. Sometimes scruffy looking newspaper salesmen, sometimes even a few on-duty coppers, still in uniform and tight collars, regarded with caution and while they were in the vicinity, hidden away from the bootlegged alcohol.

This was the first time though, that Dave had seen a pilot walking through his doors.

The man was most obviously a pilot, or some kind of aviation worker, Dave assumed, if he could judge from his baggy coveralls and thick, leather boots. He had a pair of fur lined gloves, the outer side stained with dark smears of what he could only guess to be engine grease. At his collarbone hung a pair of aviation goggles, the thick back strap of them rubbery and supple as it bent around the curve of his neck.

To any other onlooker, the man might have appeared to be dressed ridiculously for a bizarre masquerade, or perhaps a sanitation worker or some sort of factory man. Despite that, Dave recognized the uniform style immediately, having spent far too long longing after one of his own. Compared to Dave's trim suit and neatly pressed shirt though, this man was an utter mess. Even his hair, wind torn and wild, framed his face haphazardly in a whirl of black.

He took clomping, relaxed steps in, smiled breezily at the two, and then sat in a stool one over from Mayor.

Finally, Dave found his voice, turned colder than it should have been.

"We're closed for the night."

The pilot shrugged and gave a glance over to Mayor's empty glass, the left over ice cubes pooling and melting in the bottom. On his coverall was a name tag, stitched and embroidered into the fabric in maroon thread. It read the name John. "You look open to me. And your sign still says open."

Dave felt his lips twitch irritably, ignoring the thumb John had jerked over to the front window. He was right, there was a sign still out front, but that wasn't the point. No one just walks into a barroom, no, an _eatery_ , dressed in a _god damn_   _pilot's_ uniform, after _midnight_ , and then –

"Do you serve chocolate milk?"

Cut from his inner rantings, Dave stared blankly at the pilot.

"You know? Chocolate milk. Like regular milk but just… a little more brown and… uhm, chocolatey. It comes from brown cows."

"It doesn't come from brown cows," he muttered spitefully under his breath, but they did indeed have some chocolate milk for some of the more flavourful drinks they sold, so he _guessed_ he could serve it virgin. Despite the sign out front, they truly didn't sell many things aside from alcohol, but he did have it in stock, so turning down the request would be stupid. Reaching back into the small fridge under his side of the counter, he gave the pilot a short glare, but the man wasn't paying him a single iota of attention.

Mayor, the dirty, turncoat scoundrel, was waving at John, and John was waving back and beginning to make horrendous small talk. Dave kept his back turned as he prepared the glass and furiously tried to ignore the man's ramblings.

"Hey there. I like your jacket a lot. What, oh, you mean mine? Heh, yeah, it's pretty great, I fly planes and stuff. This is supposed to keep me warm during the flights in colder weather, but it doesn't always really work in the winter. It gets way too cold up in the air."

Dave's hand clenched around the plain glass in his hand as he turned, passing it over and catching John's attention again. The sight of the man was beginning to make his blood boil.

What a god damn _fake_. Waltzing around wearing a uniform on the streets and then going ahead and passing it off by saying he just "flew planes and stuff." He probably didn't even take it seriously, the idiot. He probably didn't even know or understand half of what had been the prelude to the planes he "just flew", the engineering feats and risks that were taken to create them, the fearless soldiers who had flown the earlier models of planes in the war, who died trying to save his ungrateful, pathetic excuse for a piloting career –

John took a sip at his chocolate milk and grinned. Dave had never wanted to strangle another human being so strongly in his life.

"Thanks," the man said, setting the glass down again. As he spoke, Dave noted the irritating tone to his voice, the slightly nasally, cheerful pep making him just barely wrinkle his nose in disdain.

"You do know that you can buy chocolate milk from other stores."

"Hm? Oh, yeah. I dunno, I kind of like it here. I figured why not give a new place a shot?"

Not pointing out the fact that this shop was _closed_ and currently being used for a _private_ conversation, Dave only rested his butt on the stool across from Mayor, but his elbows didn't make it to the counter top. In fact, he didn't loosen up at all, sitting stiffly and straight in his stool and making very fleeting eye contact with John every few seconds.

It was all making him rather uncomfortable. He hoped it was making John uncomfortable as well.

"So, uhm, what's new in town?" the manure-brained man asked.

"Oh, you know –" Dave was cut from his sarcastic quip by Mayor's flailing hands, grabbing, almost literally, for the attention of the two men.

He gestured in a large arc, everywhere, and then pointed to his rickety little sash, which once held the Mayoral sign but now only showed the last remaining paper clip, fastened and nearly woven into the fabric, the metal intertwined with the threads as if it had become a string of its own.

John gave him a very stupid look, not comprehending.

"He's the mayor," Dave supplied, though not helpfully and certainly not warmly.

Simply nodding benignly, John appeared to be waiting for Mayor to supply more information. He did not. After a few moments of staring at one another, the pilot looked away and then at his glass of milk.

"No, really," he continued flatly, "We call him Mayor."

Dave wasn't sure at all why he was making this any easier for him, why he was wedging him back into the conversation even after it seemed as though he might leave. He tried not to tell himself it was the uniform. It wasn't the uniform, obviously. The uniform was the dumbest thing he had ever seen in his life.

Perking up at the invitation to again be spoken to, John grinned. Dave wondered if he would get off without penalty if he tried throwing chocolate milk in his face.

"That is a pretty great name, if you ask me."

Nobody did ask him, but Dave refrained from saying that.

Mayor though, pleased and proud and smiling with all his teeth, seemed to lighten the mood considerably. He pointed to the goggles hanging around the pilot's neck, and John started to return the smile. The whole thing was making Dave feel sick.

"What, these?" John slid the rubbery goggles over his head, the straps making his hair momentarily stick up more than they had been upon entering the bar. The urge to flatten the strands down arose in Dave, to fix his horrendous mess of a self, but he didn't make any movements to help him once John corrected the mishap himself after passing the goggles over to Mayor.

He regarded them wondrously, as if some new, unearthed treasure, the metal parts of the eye frames looked clunky and heavy. The entire thing did, really, and when he held the thick glass up to his round eyes, the magnification they impacted on him looked ridiculous. Giggling, John didn't move to take them back, instead giving Dave a curious look. He stiffened under his gaze.

"So you're a pilot?" Dave asked, or stated. It was a little unclear, even to himself.

"Mhm! I actually used to fly in the end bit of the Great War. But now I just do testing and engineering kinds of things. You know, like making new aircraft? There are actually all kinds of things that need to be tested and troubleshooted and –"

"I know," Dave stated simply, though it was in a tone authorized enough to keep John quiet till he was done. "My brother flew for the war as well."

"Oh! That is really great. You probably wouldn't know all the stuff I was going to tell you, though. There is just a lot to know about planes."

John spoke on, endlessly it seemed, about the technical bits of new engines and plane models. He spoke, in rather painful detail, of how some people in an engineering team were leaning towards one new type of body mould while his own side was arguing for a different looking shape. He even got a napkin from the counter, clicked a pen out from under his inner pocket, and drew out the two contrasting designs. He explained how most people would think they looked exactly the same, but there were really some key differences. And then, he pointed them all out, one by one.

Dave didn't interrupt for a second, silently brooding and staring and trying desperately not to yell at a paying customer. The simple fact of the matter was he had already heard every single iota of information this idiot was spewing out to him and he did not want to sit around for a second more. He didn't know all of the factoids and tidbits of recent news from his brother, but instead from his own, personal research in the field. His intimate poking around in the topic was probably the reason he so easily recognized the air force uniform, for his own brother wore one that was very similar, but far out of date by now.

At last, John's presumptuous ramble grew to simply be too much, and Dave cut in.

"I know," he said again. It actually amaze him how well the older man stopped talking when Dave did, as if a teacher being scolded by a child. "I like planes. I do my research. None of this is news to me, really."

Mayor wagged his head a few times in agreement, his enthusiastic movements making the too-big goggles stuck over his eyes wiggle. John gave him a sidelong and faintly affectionate, amused face. When he did that, just for a moment, Dave thought he didn't quite hate him.

"Well, that's neat!" John enthused after a moment, beaming back at him in an impossibly irritating fashion. The urge to poison his drink him arose. "Have you ever been in a plane?"

Dave stiffened, not finding the intrusive question worthy of explanation. "No."

"Why not? You could have joined the air force ranks. Unless the whole getting shot and falling to your burning death isn't your kind of thing."

"It's no one's kind of thing. And a lot of people did die like that. Don't fucking talk about them that kinda way."

His outburst may have been a tad abrupt, but John had struck a tender nerve with him.

John looked a little taken aback at the words Dave spat out, but he nodded tentatively in agreement. "I know," he said carefully, "I lost some of my best friends. But war let me start flying, so I guess in some ways I'm grateful. It was really awful sometimes you know? Being in battle. They don't tell you that kind of thing in propaganda posters. All the death kind of gets to you after a while."

Quietly, Dave let his elbows rest on the counter top, giving John some time of actual silence. He didn't like the guy, not one single bit, but he could understand the pain of losing loved ones to war. He supposed as well, that being in the same battle when it happened would maybe be harder to deal with than waiting for news on the sidelines.

John stared down at his half empty glass, but his overly bright eyes were different now. They were hooded and haunted, but only for a second or two, just a glimpse. It was the same effect as a heavy cloud passing, only momentarily overhead, covering the sun and blotting out its light for a minuscule second. The sight made Dave look away.

Mayor slid off his goggles and passed them back. The motion caught John's attention, made him snap back into reality, and the creases around his eyes loosened considerably as he took the buckled headgear back and let it rest in front of him, beside the glass.

"It's ok, though," he said, too cheery and bright to be natural when he looked up at Dave. "I do a lot of flying now still and it is pretty fun work."

Entirely unsure now why he was even caring this much about a perfectly stupid stranger, Dave nodded to him. "I was actually going to join the ranks, you know," he confessed hesitantly, till John nodded and he carefully picked his way through his words in the same way a horse would pick its footing along a mountain path. "Turned of fighting age one measly month after Armistice Day. Just a little too late. My brother though, he was older than me by a good 5 years, served for three. Stupid bastard got himself killed before he could get the hell out of there."

Mayor, quiet as ever and careful, patted him on his hand. It was a simple gesture, but soothed the nerves that were welling up, unseen, in Dave's chest. Grateful that he had even noticed it, let alone acted on the knowledge, he harboured a ghost of a smile at Mayor.

"I am really sorry about that," John sympathized with drawn brow line and a pronounced frown. It was different hearing comfort coming from him, something bent out of shape and wrong, because he didn't deserve to be getting sympathy from a man who was on the front lines himself. If anything, it was the other way around.

Dave did the only thing he knew to do, and shrugged. "It's ok," he said, brushing the topic off. "Was a few years ago and I'm over it. Just kind of wish I could have kept fighting for him."

John nodded, thoughtful and slow. "I think we all keep fighting, one way or another."

No matter how awful he was beginning to feel at the sudden topic, Dave wasn't in the mood for some prepackaged optimism, embroidered words of pleasantry stitched onto a lady's pillowcase. He cast his eyes away, irritated, and fiddled with the damp rag in his hand. "Sure."

The conversation lulled there, the only sound in the nearly empty room coming from John, drinking the last of his milk up from his straw. The quiet little gurgles as he reached the bottom of it were a vicar's closing words at a funeral, and the conversation ended there.

"It's pretty late," John excused, looking at the wall clock behind him. "I should probably get going home, or my sister might have a heart attack from worry. She gets so uptight about these things sometimes, it's like she forgets that the streets aren't even as dangerous as flying in combat."

Dumping his coins on the counter, John hopped off his stool. Dave nodded and took the coins, cashed them in the till, and then swiped up his dirty glass.

"Better not keep her waitin'."

"Wouldn't dream of it! And hey, see you later. Both of you," John added, smiling widely at Mayor, who thumbed-up in return. The both of them, Dave and Mayor, knew that when people said that in a bar late at night, they really never meant it. Or maybe they did, but they never ended up returning.

Smiling in relief, Dave sealed the empty promise. "Sure. Catch you later."

Even as the door was swinging shut behind the man and Dave's eyes followed him out, he could catch the glimpse of Mayor, in the corner of his vision, waggling his brows at him. He did things like that sometimes, stupid and strange things that made no sense at all, but Dave only scoffed at him and washed up the final glass for the night.

  


  


 


	2. Thursday May 22, 1922

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I notice that when I upload works, the site seems to have an issue with my italics and the spaces around them. I think I fixed all the mistakes but who really knows anymore. If you spot any more errors, just let me know in the comments!

The strangest thing about John's promise was that he actually kept it.

He came back the next day, when the bar was slightly busier and Dave had less time to sit and chat with anyone, let alone the idiot boy who drank chocolate milk and wasted his time. It didn't seem as if John minded at all that he wasn't given attention though, passing the time with Mayor as they talked and gestured and laughed stupidly throughout the evening. The two of them got along pretty well, Dave noted, which maybe made him feel a twinge of ill feelings, maybe even a sliver of momentary jealousy. It was admittedly strange seeing Mayor open up so readily and easily with someone who wasn't him. Despite that, when he finally did get a moment to sit down and grudgingly chat with John, the pilot's attention easily fell onto him and Mayor quieted down in the meantime, content to watch the conversation for the majority of the time instead of adding in comments of his own. It turned out ok, Dave thought, since even though he wanted to kill the stupid man, it wasn't actually horrendous to speak to him on a second occasion.

John visited again after that night, and then again, once, on the weekend. Soon, as time passed and a pattern began to form in his attendance, Dave could expect him to be arriving on certain days when he came off work in the late evening and went directly to R&R's bar, or on weekends in the middle of the afternoon, when he drove up to the place in his car, the sight of which captured Dave's interest without difficulty.

Over time, John became less and less irritating, or maybe he didn't and Dave was only getting used to his stupidity. He didn't wear his pilot's uniform to the bar again, explaining that the only reason he was in it at all was that he had spilled a huge load of grease over his shirt when he had tried to change into it after work that first day, and so the coverall was a much better option to head home in than the oily mess of fabric. On a daily basis he dressed casually, almost sloppily with his mismatched brown slacks and black shoes, his button down shirts undone on the top two holes. John carried around with him an aura of haphazardness and disorganization, but miraculously, he was never flustered, never running late or acting like the mess he so clearly was.

In a lot of ways, Dave still hated John. He was pushy and didn't know limits sometimes, he put his foot in his mouth on a nearly constant keel and apparently, he did not know what a hair comb was. But he didn't quite loathe the sight of him anymore. Things had slowly seemed to mellow out between them, enough so that the ill thoughts Dave harboured about him ebbed away, piece by piece.

Dave was at once alarmed to find that when he thought about him now, while walking home in the middle of the night or while making eggs and sausage breakfast in his tiny apartment, he didn't think of him with the desire to kill anymore. He didn't even want to hurt him, even minorly, which was startling. He started giving the matter serious thought for some time, and finally, he thought he knew why he didn't hate John.

Once he looked at it simply, stripped down of the emotions and tension swirling around the topic, Dave genuinely liked talking to John, because John was strange. He was a weapons tester. He had killed soldiers in battle. His entire career revolved now around finding new ways to kill people. And yet all the same, every day, he wore a brilliant smile and garishly hideous shirts, and he always drank chocolate milk and sometimes he brought a tin of cookies with him from the supermarket and shared it with him and Mayor. He occasionally walked to avoid the cracks in the floor, tripping and hopping over his huge feet, and once he laughed so hard that he fell victim to a gross snorting fit, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the bar.

In a lot of ways, John was an idiot. And in a lot of other ways, he was a rarity, something that needed taking care of and protecting, so he'd stay the way he was and never, ever lose a shred of what made him precious. And maybe, Dave thought, that was why he didn't really hate him.

 

Still though, he hated him nearly always.

 

"I'm not _saying_ that it was ghosts, but we all know it as ghosts," John prattled on a Thursday night, his arms swinging about when he spoke like a marionette doll with an ill-practiced conductor at the controls. Dave sometimes thought he picked that habit up from Mayor, but he definitely was not thinking that now.

Currently, he was much more concerned with the current task at hand, which revolved around the great wave of people that just dropped into the bar with no warning whatsoever. The room was almost filled to its brimming point, a large portion of the guests squeezing in between the row of occupied stools to get their glass. Dave had his suspicions that they poured into the bar from some kind of show or late night party that had come to a conclusion, thereby funneling all the lingering party goers into another convenient location, such as this one. He frankly didn't care from where the people came from, but it was unexpected and it was overwhelming and as Thursday was often a slow night, he was manning the store all on his own, without the help of anyone.

It was frustrating. It was demanding. It was draining on his patience.

And John had to go and talk about _ghosts._

"Look, ok," he started up again, once Dave got a second's reprieve from pouring drinks to start now on the growing dune of soiled glassware on his counters. "The haunting of Hickory Public School is totally a real thing. I was there! And there was a ghost. It had really funny looking hands, I remember that really clearly. I wonder why ghosts don't have normal hands, maybe they don't really need them to hold stuff? Ghosts probably can do stuff without their bodies, not like us. That's pretty neat, huh?"

Dave had his back to John, and yet that didn't seem to deter the pilot from speaking. If anything, he spoke up even more insistently in vain attempt to keep his attention. John rambled on until Dave finally turned and shot a small glare over his shoulder.

"Wonder if I were a ghost, if I could smack you," he mused, obviously not sharing the enthusiasm about the topic that John had. "Just a little hit upside the head, bowl you over with my unnatural ghosty hands. That would be pretty neat."

His scathing review seemed to only entertain John, who laughed and shrugged and put his elbows on the counter. Mayor was dully swirling his finger around the rim of his glass and somewhere, in the back of the bar, some dimwit had started a drinking song. Dave sent an unimpressed look to that general direction, seeming as if he was beginning to seethe.

"This is Chicago," Dave grumbled to himself, shaking his hands off in the sink, "Not some little seaside village."

"I think it's cheerful," John said. Dave gave him the mental award of the most damn irritating person currently residing on the planet. Smiling unabashedly and stupid, John kept talking. "You're in a really good mood today, huh?"

Dave was on the cusp of replying with a seething remark, but he was cut off by a woman's voice before he got a chance.

"Can't you tell he's always happy from the frown lines around his face?" she asked, a careless looseness set into the drawl, marginally more familiar than John's. He met it with a small smile in greeting.

"Hey, Roxy. Thank christ you showed up – feels like everyone ran in here all at once tonight."

The co-owner of the bar sent him a beaming smile and then reached over to playfully shake a hand in John's mop of hair before slipping behind the counter along with Dave. Her and John had been acquainted on the days Roxy worked alongside Dave, and it seemed like the two of them got along pretty well. He would have guessed that there was some interest wavering there between the both of them, at least on John's part, but he knew that Roxy was in some clandestine relationship that she rarely spoke about, so he figured that it was a dead end there for the both of them.

Not that he cared, of course. Relationships of his coworkers and friends hardly interested him. Aside from if the Mayor hooked up with someone, of course. He might be a little excited for him, then.

"Hey, Roxy," John smiled.

Shuffling into an apron and taking a moment to glance at herself in a pocket mirror, Roxy fixed her wispy blonde fringe before addressing Dave again. He wondered why she bothered with the fixing, since it looked like she was already pretty dolled up. Roxy always tried to look her best and usually she succeeded with flying colours, but tonight she had a deep, deep shade of plum lipstick on, making her lips almost look black with intensity. Her thin fingers were tipped in a pearly pink polish, and she patted Dave on the back with the palm of her dainty hand.

"Not to worry, Davey," she said in her casual style of speaking. "Just finished up on a pretty nice date, so sorry I'm late, but I'm here now."

He shrugged. Roxy had been supposed to relieve him of his shift about twenty minutes ago, but honestly, he didn't mind spending more of the evening in the bar now that she was here. It was often a better alternative to spending blunt time in his apartment or out in an unknown club. Most nights he found himself hanging around the place anyways, even just for a off-duty drink or a chat, because even though he didn't have _much_ company here, it was still quality company, and sometimes the best he was going to get.

"It's fine. Want me to stay on shift with you here till everyone heads home for the night?"

"Dave," Roxy said, surprisingly stern and yet still playful, both her hands perched on her thin hips. "You work here every night of your life – go out and have some fun for a change."

"I do have fun," he said, "It's just usually here."

She didn't say anything, instead just looking over to John with the same strict expression on her face. "You take him out somewhere, then. Drag the guy and his perfect hair out of here and go find some place else."

"Me?" John asked, pointing to himself stupidly. For a moment Dave wondered why on earth he even bothered to talk to this guy. His social skills were about on par with an inept twelve year old.

"Don't see why not," Roxy pressed on, "You two spend all your free time together here anyways." She was right, obviously, but the thought of being friendly to John outside of work was something Dave would balk at any day of the week without hesitation.

Dave was on the verge of protesting, his mouth already opened, but Roxy turned to him before he had a chance to say anything and folded her arms. She stared at him, daring him to break out of his silence. He knew that there would be no winning if he tried to argue now.

"....C'mon." was all he said, hopelessly pleading.

"You need this," Roxy insisted and grabbed his forearm to push him towards the door. "Go get something to eat and talk to some broads. You'll have fun. And if you don't, blame Johnny. He's easy to blame."

She was speaking quietly, but John caught wind of the jab and scowled out a "hey!". Roxy only winked to him, and then prodded Dave further along.

"Go on. You'll thank me later!"

 

As they bummed out onto the sidewalk of the bar, looking and feeling like a pair of kids shooed out of the kitchen by an irritated mother, Dave realized that this was the first time he'd ever actually been kicked out of a bar. He decided he was not nearly drunk to make this milestone actually count.

"Where are we even _go_ ing?" he complained, kicking at a small pebble on the side walk. It tumbled its rickety way down the slabs of cement and then kicked off the curb, hiding amidst the shadows and cigarette butts there.

"I don't know," John shrugged. His hands were hanging in his pockets, jacket off and left in his car, parked at the bar. Glancing over at him, Dave noticed his suspenders, a deep navy blue which clashed slightly with the creamy yellow of his shirt. The guy never seemed to notice how badly he dressed. "Do you want to go to the park?"

"There's a park here?" Dave scoffed, looking around at the darkened shop fronts and rows of alighted streetlights that marched before them, soldiers of daylight in a war of night. He guessed that they should have asked Mayor if there was anywhere nearby to go to – he always seemed to be going new places and scouting around backstreets and hidden paths and finding all the places no one else knew about and he certainly would be a useful asset on tonight's adventure. Dave would have insisted he join them on the walk, if only for the sake of keeping himself from the uncontainable stupidity of John, but Mayor had made it clear that he couldn't attend, his hands waving and his head shaking when Dave had asked. Maybe he had to go home. Who knew, Roxy hadn't given them enough time to figure out.

At the question, John only gave him an unimpressed look. "Dave, how long have you lived in Chicago?"

He smirked, standing up a little straighter in pride. "20 years – born and raised."

"I've only been here for about a year and I know more about this city than you do, apparently."

His mood immediately deflated, Dave glowered over at the shorter man. "To be fair, you drive around a whole lot more than I can. I don't got a car and I don't want to spring to pay for a bus ride 'cross town for no god damn reason."

John rolled his eyes and then took the lead in their navigation, winding the both of them through the streets of the dark city.

Much to Dave's surprise and denial, there really _was_ a park not too far from where they had started off. Its wrought iron gates were deserted now, the regular attendees all presumably being under nine years of age and in bed by now at 11pm, but that suited him just fine. Like this, the park was swathed in great sheets of darkness, shadows and rivers of mist peeking from behind the giant trees. The ordinary park seemed to pick up a more mysterious, silent quality as they walked, the gurgle of a dimmed fountain on the central walkway their only company.

"You've really _ne_ ver been here?" John implored with a curious glance sent his way, as if it was some sort of crime not to visit the local park.

He shrugged, eyes on the cool darkness before them. It really was a nice park, he guessed, spacious and with winding paths, an army of trees blocking sections off from view and moonlight filtering in through the tree top foliage. "Might have been – when I was a kid. Then again maybe not. Didn't really go to a whole load of parks before."

"I like coming here in the daytime when I'm not working," John said as he nodded to himself. "There are usually a lot of doves around and stuff and on Saturdays there's a sweet old lady who sits over by the fountain." He pointed vaguely behind them, to the sculpted fountain they had already passed, gargoyle type figures carved into the stone, grimacing at pedestrians. "She's nice, and sometimes we sit and feed the birds for a while. I feel kind of bad though, because she says she used to go there with her husband until he died a few years ago. His heart gave out on him. Sad, huh? I think it's really brave though that she keeps going there even after he's gone."

Dave didn't say anything, because he didn't have a single thing to say. Or he did, but there was no way he'd be sharing it during a round of idle chit chat like this. Death was a strange thing for him, distant and intangible and terrifying, and he'd really rather not open that plane of discussion when he was actually getting along with John for a change.

They kept walking, deeper and deeper into the dark park and after a while Dave pulled himself out of his stubborn silence.

"Why would you feed them? Pigeons are fuckin' annoying."

John shrugged, keeping pace with Dave as they walked along their path. "Well, I'unno about that. I think they're pretty nice. And they sound nice, too."

"That's a whole lot of nice for just one bird."

"They're nice birds."

"Just ‘cause something's nice doesn't mean I gotta like it," Dave said, a tone of irritation seeping into his words.

John seemed to catch the message to shut his mouth, which was incredible giving his non-existent aptitude for subtlety, and they returned to silence. It was an uncomfortable one. Dave wondered if John was capable of comfortable silence.

"There's a pond around this way," John offered after a few moments, breaking the silence and pointing towards the path that branched right. Finding the idea almost amiable, Dave veered off with him.

The park here was quieter, the soft noises of the street muffled and hidden by the fog of trees behind them, and as they kept descending into the near pitch-blackness, the very faint sound of water lapping at a shoreline arrived, insistent.

Across the pond that opened before them was a security light, floodlit and amber in tone, and it glittered over the calm water, diamonds on an otherwise charcoal black. John seemed to inexplicably know every inch of this park and he lead them directly to the farthest side of the pond, where the paved slab they were following ended abruptly. There at the end was a wooden bench, wrought iron and ornate where the the armrests and feet were formed. Dave took a seat next to him, his gaze cast over to the expanse of shimmering pond water, and released a slow breath.

"Can't believe Rox thought that I needed to get out. I get out plenty. I get groceries for chrissakes, don't I? Sometimes I go to a different club on my off hours. I get out enough." He didn't look at John as he spoke, his mannerisms akin to someone muttering for themselves in an empty room, voice echoing over the bare walls.

John only shrugged, passive and unassuming. "Maybe she wanted the bar to herself. It is her place after all. She's got a right to want it all to herself once in a while."

"The place was packed," he reminded, "She could do with my help."

"People like to feel important on their own once in a while, you know."

Dave didn't have a argument for this, so instead he just gave John a withering glare. He wasn't quite sure if John even saw it, since it was dark enough here that he could hardly see his face at this close proximity.

John, obviously, either did not see or did not care to notice, and he brightened up considerably after a few seconds, as if conscious thought had just occurred in his mind for once and the notion excited him.

"Do you have any bread?"

Dave scoffed, stretching out his legs further from the bench. "Why the _hell_ would I have _bread_?"

"There's some ducks over there. We could feed them." He pointed across the pond, and true to his word, there was a small battalion of ducks swimming leisurely towards them.

"Can't believe I'm hanging out with a guy who gets excited over ducks."

He had said it as a jab, outright and annoyed, but miraculously John beamed over at him.

"Well, I can't believe I’m hanging out with a guy who thinks that a trip to the grocery store is an outing."

He had nothing to say to that and he folded his arms over his knees, hunched over and watching the ducks wander closer.

It was strange to him, spending time with John while neither of them were under the veil of work or occupation, bound to their post and without option to leave. Dave had no reason to stay here, he had no obligation that kept him from walking home and going into his apartment and paying John no attention at all, and yet for some reason, he didn't. In a very hidden, concealed sort of way, buried under several layers of his pride, he supposed he liked spending time with John.

"It's ok if you don't get out much," John was saying, in the sort of way one does when they think they've overstepped a boundary, even if the boundary never originally existed to overstep. "Sometimes I used to stay in bed all day and not move for anything. It got my sister a little worried, you know? She used to say that I didn't have any friends anymore, and I guess she was right! Most of my buddies from before went their separate ways in the war, and I guess... well a lot of them gave up their lives. I tried my best to kept up contact with them since I got home again, but the few people I did get a hold of just didn't seem too thrilled to hear from me. It felt really wrong to go back to being normal and having the same old best friends after both of you were just out killing people with guns and stuff. It kind of made it seem like we were pretending it never even happened when we tried to go back to being normal, and that didn't feel right. 'Cause it happened all right, and as much as I want to forget it all, maybe we have to remember it so it doesn't happen again."

Dave took to examining his fingers as John spoke, turning them over in the half light and inspecting the shadows that formed as he moved. He understood, mostly, what he was getting at, but his mind kept drifting to other issues, the thoughts lingering and cold in his chest like a frozen sword stabbed through and left there for the skin to heal around it. He had lost people too in the war. He wasn't in battle with them when it happened, but he still lost them and he still didn't have anyone left. Unlike John, he wished that none of that had ever happened. Remembering was pointless if it only made him hurt.

John kept talking, unaware of the quiet pain he was inflicting on Dave with every driving word.

"It is pretty nice though, to be back home. I'm pretty lucky, not many pilots even lasted more than a month. I'm not sure if its because luck is just a thing I have or if like, fate or something kept me alive. Sometimes I think that, that the only reason I didn't die was because of some supernatural god or angel or something kept me alive. Is it dumb to think like that? That I survived ‘cause I have something important to do in life now?"

"Yeah," Dave said coldly. "It is pretty stupid. There were other people out there that died and they shouldn't have." He didn't keep eye contact as he spoke, flicking his eyes out towards the ducks with a hardened gaze.

"Oh," John paled suddenly, giving him a guilty look. "Sorry, you mean your brother, huh?"

He shook his head, avoiding the eye contact he knew was aimed right at him now. "Doesn't matter, John. It's over now. I'm over it too."

"I don't think anyone really gets over it," John muttered in a soft tone, and when Dave glanced at him, he was looking away. "At least I have you now, though. It's a little easier to deal with stuff when I have someone to talk about it with."

Hearing that almost made things feel better for Dave. Almost. He knew for a fact that he wasn't a good friend to anyone. At least with most people he tried to hide his contempt, felt like he owed them some semblance of curtsey, but to John he acted ruder than he had to anyone else for a very long time. To know that despite it all he still accepted him, still actively sought out his company, was just wrong. Dave drew an uncomfortable breath.

"You said you fly planes now," he blurted abruptly, focusing on changing the topic. "What's your favourite plane model right now?"

The topic change caught John a little unawares for a second or two, but he just nodded, accepting the cue to drop their previous discussion. "Well, that all depends really. Favourite model that I've flown, or favourite that I've _want_ ed to fly? Or even favourite that is not even _made_ yet?"

"Anything," he instructed, shrugging and shaking his head. "All of them."

"Hm, well, there was a model I was trying to get funding for last spring, it was a new, completely brand new thing. Sort of like how a gull's wings bend? Think about that, but instead of a beak and head, its a propeller and cockpit. Really awesome, the thing just glides through the air so nicely. We just didn't have enough money to get it off the ground though. Heh, get it off the ground. Plane jokes."

Dave had heard of this design actually, it was featured in one of the aviation magazines he read. It seemed amazing in concept, though he knew that the price tag alone was reason enough for hardly anyone to spring for such a design.

"Heard it was a smoother ride, too," he offered, attempting to make a conversation that wasn't entirely awful.

"Yeah, exactly!" John enthused, eyes lighting up just a bit in the gloom. "A lot better for sharp shooting and even the machine gun attachments. Combining the two along with the speed of the planes I fly nowadays would make them totally unbeatable. You could mow down anyone – in the air or on the ground."

John spoke so casually about such things that he didn't even quiet his voice, lower his gaze. He just kept _smiling,_ and he was genuinely excited about the ideas as well. Seeing it made Dave curl back on himself slightly.

"Sounds impressive," he muttered, hoping his lack of enthusiasm wasn't that noticeable.

"Mhm," John skipped back, not missing a single beat. "Right now we're working on a new way to get the machine gun attachment to actually stay put on the standard use model. ‘Cause I don't know if you've ever been in a plane before, but when you got that gun going so fast and your own engine is revving and its just _wow_ , _wind turbulence_ , everything just shakes _ev_ erywhere. A guy I work with kidded with me that you could stick a baby up there to get it to burp instead of having to bounce it on your knee. Kind of funny, huh? I think you'd need some kind of pram on there to keep the kid from shaking all over the place. Otherwise it might fall out or something? Man, how awful would that be. A baby flying out of a plane without a parachute. I guess it wouldn't have to worry about burping anymore after that, so at least that's one problem solved?"

Turning even more quiet, Dave looked away, a tight frown on his brows. He didn't necessarily want to be a bore of a friend, but John just seemed to know exactly what to say to make him feel the least like talking. It wasn't always like that, of course, but there was starting to be nothing he'd rather have now than an opportunity to leave, or at the very least, commit the rest of the evening to silence.

"Dave?"

Pulled from his thinking, his silent praying to spontaneously combust and leave the conversation in a puff of smoke and singed hair, Dave gave his friend a look. John was regarding him curiously. It wasn't necessarily a very concerned look, but it was empathetic to a degree that the man hardly even seemed to be capable of.

"You're spacing out. Sorry, was I talking about planes too much? I do that sometimes. Sorry."

"No. Nah, John, it's fine. Just thinkin' about what you're saying."

John nodded, a knowing little look on his face. "Was it the pram? I thought about the pram a lot. Having a baby carriage in a pilots pit seems so funny to me, I don't know why. "

"It wasn't the pram," Dave said, not bothering to put up a fight in his tone to correct him.

"Are you sure you're ok? Usually you'd yell at me for talking too much about stupid things by now."

"I'll yell at you later," Dave said, feeling himself relax a little and turning to face John more as he spoke. Being just a little rude with John always seemed to calm his mood. "I'll make a note of it and stick it to your fridge so you remember, or you can get a tattoo of it if you have to. Meet me 3pm at the back of the school so I can yell at you or else I'll kick your scrawny ass."

John scrunched his nose, as if trying not to laugh. "Is there even a school around here?"

"That's not the point," Dave insisted, smirking at him. "I'll meet you somewhere else then. Like the grocery store. Have a good old fashioned beat down in the deli aisle. Give the meat guy a good laugh."

"Is this the part where I comment on the fact that you chose meat aisle? Are you trying to say your meat is more impressive than mine is and will beat me up?"

His foul mood vanished, Dave fought with himself to keep from laughing. "John, wow, shut up."

"Well, is that a yes or no?"

"That's not at all what this is about. But if you wanted to compare, I bet I'd still win. Not gonna give up a fight against you that easily."

John scoffed and folded his arms in a mockingly aggressive gesture. "If you think you can cheat at this, trust me, you can't. Trying to fake it with a substitute or something wouldn't work. I have seen samples plenty of times before and I know exactly what it's supposed to look like."

Dave just gave him a look, smug and pleased that he had painted himself into a corner, and then waited for John to blush.

It was an absolutely beautiful sight and he wished that half of his face wasn't swathed in shadows, hiding the complete, glory filled, ego pumping effect.

"That's not what I meant," he said quickly, redder than Dave even thought possible in such dim lighting.

Deciding to throw him a bone, not a literal one and not _that_ one either, Dave just grinned and shrugged. "It's whatever, John. We can stop talking about this now, since it stopped really meaning anything and is pretty stupid now."

"Thank you."

  


They waited for the ducks to swim lazily towards them, meandering closer only to have the swarm steer away from them a few seconds later, nervous and wary of their chuckling conversation. John complained again that he didn't think to bring any bread to feed them, and Dave thought that maybe, if they ever did do this again, one of them should remember to bring something for the ducks. In his opinion, ducks were leagues less irritating than pigeons, and maybe it would actually be fun to feed them. Maybe.

They walked back out of the park , shoes damp and feeling their way more than seeing the path before them. Content with the outing, Dave chatted and John chatted and that was ok, and sometimes they were quiet and that was ok too. It felt that at some points in time, things were just very strangely comfortable with John. John had a halo of relaxation and loose ribbed chuckles that drifted after him like a wake of clouds and mist in the air, shielding him from glaring sunlight and sadness and rain. And Dave didn't always like him for that, but he could appreciate it, especially at times such as these.

Kicking stones and scuffing shoes on the sidewalk, both of them walked towards Dave's apartment. John grew a thoughtful look on his face as they progressed, staring up at each streetlight in succession as they passed it, peered into each glimmering and shadowed storefront, gazing with interest up at the stars. Dave only trudged beside him, partially concerned for what was on John's mind.

As expected, he infuriated him the second he spoke, but it was clear that it was only by accident.

"You've never been in a plane, have you?" he asked, hands stuffed into the pockets of his grey slacks, the fabric bunching under his pressure. He walked with a loose gait, feet turned outwards at the ankles.

Dave shrugged, feeling his defences coming back up. "Never had a need to, really."

"Do you want to?"

This as a loaded question, Dave knew. In most ways, in almost all ways, he was _dying_ to get himself up into a plane, to don some aviator goggles and feel the thrum of the plane under him, all around him, alive and brimming with vitality. He wanted to be in control of a machine so powerful, that he would have endless freedom to reach and go wherever it was he desired. It was tantalizing, everything he had dreamed about since his brother joined the ranks, everything he could think about after he was out of commission.

Dave wanted to fly with every bone in his body, and then some more.

"No."

John gave him a small little look, brows arched and his lips upturned into a frown, curious and interested and stupid. Dave looked away.

"Didn't you say you wanted to join the pilot's ranks before the war ended? You seemed pretty passionate about it."

"I said that I wanted to do something after my brother died," he corrected with his eyes still averted. What he said was actually the truth. He had never outright told John that he yearned for flight, that every fibre of his being sang with tension at the notion of being in the air. If John picked up on that, then he could claim he was imagining things. "And getting in a plane and shooting some other guys in planes seemed like a good idea at the time. Nothing to do with some insane idea that means I like flying or something."

John looked off-put at this, but he wasn't easily deterred and he kept forging onwards. "It's not insane to like flying. I think it's pretty fun, actually. Like driving in a really fast car."

Having only been in a handful of cars in his lifetime, Dave shrugged. He had taken taxis before and he hopped on the bus sometimes when he would go to visit his cousin across the state, but neither of them had been very fast. John had a car, a classic model T that he had envied from afar on more than one occasion, but he had never been inside it, and he guessed he never would. There was no reason for him to go in it, after all. Everywhere he needed to go on a daily basis, his own two feet could handle.

"Well," he said curtly, "I hope you enjoy yourself when you're flying. Or driving fast. Whatever. Enjoy yourself. Life is short." Dave was looking directly at the sidewalk as they walked, seemingly infatuated with the yellow stain the street light threw upon it.

John took some time before answering, but when he did, it was in a small voice, persistent and pressing as always. "I could take you flying if you want." The words made Dave feel sick, frustrated, patronized, all of the above, all at once.

"I don't need pity cases," he gritted out, finally glaring directly at him. "I never flew on my own and I don't need you offering to help me off the ground. I'm fine. Planes aren't all that important to me anyways."

Finally seeming to get the message ,John backed off, gliding away from him a few feet as they strode down the sidewalk. Dave's apartment was nearing, and he had one side street to take from the main road before he got there.

"Anyways," he muttered, trying to break the silence he had so easily created, "Night, John. Take care."

"Yeah," he said, hopelessly cheerful in the gloom, "Bye, Dave."

 


	3. Friday May 23, 1922

Dave had mixed feelings about Friday nights.

The bar was brimming, full of life and humidity, stale ale breath and waving hands of those on the looser side of sobriety, all trying and failing to be the life of the party. Quite a few of the regulars were there, dressed in their Friday casual of comfortable jackets and slightly scuffed up shoes, too dirtied from a day's work and too forgotten to be bothered with until morning. Most notably, Mayor's shoes were smattered with a wonderful shade of teal, and when prompted about it, he let loose to a whirlwind story of a muralist who had let him borrow some chalk for the afternoon, let him join her in colouring the slummier side of Chicago – painting the town, literally. Mayor tracked the colour inside like a fresh breeze, and though Dave knew he'd have to be the one to sweep it up before closing time, he didn't quite mind.

Both Roxy and Rose were joining him behind the counter, which was almost surprising, since it wasn't often that both of them had nothing to do on a Friday night. One or the other might have a date, or an outing of some kind with their friends. He really had no idea what it was that the girls did in their spare time, and he never found the need to pry. Dave did, however, know that Roxy frequented the more boisterous dancing clubs on her nights off, her fringed dresses and colourful, feathered headbands of plumage and sequins marking her as distinctively as she aimed for. That life suited her well, he thought, the dazzling light and fun and whirling supply of alcohol all in easy reach of her dainty fingertips. He'd never danced with her before, the opportunity never coming up naturally, but if her stories were to be trusted, she was phenomenal at that line of movement, spirited and laughing and full of spring to her step, making any partner swoon, allegedly. He thought it might be fun to dance with her, just to have some fun for once.

Tonight though, that wouldn’t be happening. Dave was settled into his work, sorting through their new shipment of inventory on a spare bit of counter, having nothing better to do since Roxy and Rose were handling the customers. It was a low enough traffic day for a Friday, certainly not enough customers to warrant three staff members, but still enough to make Dave pleased to have at least one of the girl's help. Mayor was in his usual seat and grinning silently at Dave as he sifted through the bottles of ordered wine. His eyes kept glancing over to the seat beside him, vacant and cold, not graced with the touch of a single pair of pants since opening hour that day.

Dave knew exactly who normally sat there. He also knew why it was empty.

John made it a point to come to the bar whenever he could. He said it was to get out of the house, to get some chocolate milk, to put his sister's worried mind at ease for once, whatever excuse he happened to put out for the day. Dave knew that all of these were only partially true, since there had to be a reason he kept returning to this particular bar. John laid claim that he liked the atmosphere that this place had, he liked Mayor as well, he liked the brand of chocolate milk they used, and did you know that the corner store down by his home didn't have this band? How ridiculous.

Dave was starting to get the strange sense that John came so often here because he thought of Dave as a real friend.

He was not at all sure how he felt about that. Maybe a little pleased. Mostly alarmed. Very confused.

But it was a Friday night, the night he knew for a fact that John had off for the past two weeks, and he said that his schedule rarely mixed itself up. Last night was when Roxy had ushered them off on their ridiculous romantic walk through the park and Dave had, as he had feared and predicted, totally fucking blew it. The way that John left him last night as he pealed off onto his side street was not in the manner of someone ending off a pleasant night out with a friend. He had been annoyed by Dave's curt dealings with him. Maybe even hurt. He had ever right to be, too. Dave had blown it, plain and simple.

This was not a new occurrence to Dave. Past acquaintances had been messed up in a similar manner, people met in school or in his various past jobs, even a very charming girlfriend once upon a time. Each time he had driven the other away, either by a fault of intention or accident. He knew he wasn't good at people. He wasn't good at talking like John was and he didn't what to say and when, or how to keep his mouth shut. People were difficult, and at the ripe old age of 22, Dave could proudly say he was bitter over them.

He wanted to say he was used to it, but he was not. It still made him feel awful every time he happened to mess a relationship up, every time he drove away a potential friend, or ruined some sort of fresh bond. The whole experience was about as satisfying as drowning a barn kitten – unfortunate, regrettable, and ultimately forgettable as the person drifted out of his life. Dave decided long ago that he didn't need people in his life. Anyone he happened to cross paths with was a happy coincidence.

It was a mystery to him as to why Roxy and Rose even kept him on board with them, or why they talked to him outside of work. Unlike most people, Dave did like them, finding their combined wit and spontaneity to be rather inviting and possibly the only thing he had left to a family anymore. He was glad for being in their lives.

Mayor was, like always, a complete mystery to him, and Dave loved him just like that. There was no reason for further prying with Mayor, no reason to ask or pick him apart to get to the details. Mayor had a type of accepting quality that appealed to almost anyone, where even a soured out man like Dave could find refuge. There was no reason to ruin the understanding the two of them possessed, and thankfully Dave had never managed to do it accidentally. He rested his elbows on the counter, forgetting his pile of unsorted wines for now.

"You know," Roxy's voice poked in through his thoughts, piercing them with her giggles, "He's not going to come back if you keep staring at his chair like that. It might make him kinda uncomfy, you know. Some people aren't into that kinda thing."

Blinking out of his vacant gaze aimed at the chair John sat at, Dave gave her a terse glare. "I wasn't staring because of that," he defended, trying to brush it off and resume his wine sorting with renewed verve. He was half through the case, and if he finished early he'd probably get to head home early as well, something he didn't mind doing after the stress of last night. Some time alone on his couch was beginning to sound like heaven.

"Right, right," she chirped, sliding a whisky glass over to a burly, bearded man across from her with a quiet, "Here you go, hun."

She was far from halting her investigation though. Now without distraction, Roxy's hands went to her hips and her eyes locked onto Dave's averted ones.

"Soooo?" she drawled.

A quick look and a raised brow was all he gave her before setting back to the elegant bottles, writing the inventory on a list. "Can I help you?"

"What'd you do last night?" she pressed on, taking a playful step over to him, her black t-strap shoes clicking as she walked.

He shook his head, determined not to give her this pleasure of making him spill. "I didn't do nothin'."

"You know what I mean. How'd you wad up his knickers? Did you try to tell him ghosts were lame? That would have got him. It would have gotten him _good_." Roxy slurred her words sometimes when she spoke, drawled them out as if she were drunk, even when she wasn't. It was misleading to some customers, having a bartender acting like a drunk even if she were perfectly sober. She claimed it was all part of the ex _per_ ience. Then again, sometimes she did just show up to work drunk. It was mostly just a hit and miss with her and guessing was _also_ part of the experience.

"I didn't get anyone's knickers in a bunch, or took a stab at anyone's ghost ego. I didn't even mess up his god damn hair, ok?"

Roxy smirked, her arms folded over her sequined dress. It glittered, catching the light as she moved. "Well, yeah, he already has his hair as messy as it can go. Doing more wouldn't even be noticeable, you know."

Shaking his head and just focusing on once again getting all the bottles catalogued, it took Dave a moment or two before he responded. "You know what I mean."

"'Course I do!" she grinned cheekily, coming right over and bumping his side with her elbow. "You didn't make him mad, you made him un _com_ fortable."

"And how in the hell of it is that any different?" he huffed indignantly, finally giving up the pretense of work and addressing her with another glare.

Roxy didn't speak, just smiled wider, nodded her knowing little nod, and then sidled away again to the far end of the bar.

"I thought as much," she finally said, a pleased lilt tainting her voice. "You tried to put your _moves_ on him, didn't you? You know? Huh? Give him the old smoulder, bat your girly white lashes and sashayed your hips till he was crossing his legs and begging to go someplace more _pri_ vate with you – or I guess it was kind of the other way around, hmm? Did you misread the signs? Was he just being friendly, oh Davey, I am so sorry. Did you try to kiss him before he was ready?"

Sputtering some sort of refute, Dave was striding over to her quickly, the tips of his ears tinted red and warm as she loudly spewed out the speculation for the entire, packed bar to hear. "Roxy, what the hell are you talking about?" he hissed, giving an embarrassed glance behind him to check if anyone was actually listening. No faces were curiously turned their way except for Mayor, who grinned widely as Dave made eye contact, apparently liking the free sitcom he had playing before him.

"That wasn't at all what it was last night," he stated, tone firm and steady.

"Hmm," she smiled, obviously pleased at the opportunity to give him a good tease. "So then was that what it was on a _diff_ erent night? Oh, Strider, please don't tell me that's why you were late for your Monday morning shift – was he keeping you up all night? It's ok, Davey, I know how it is sometimes with men. He has needs, you know." She went so far as to pat his shoulder, gleefully patronizing as Dave shied away from her with a glower.

"Roxy. It's _noth_ ing like that," he insisted, getting a little defensive, " _I'm_ nothing like that. Me and John are just… me and John. We're just guys and friends and it's just that. There's no funny business going on behind the scenes."

Roxy made a small, pleased face, acquiescing and turning to the counter to serve another drink to a young man in a  flat cap. He nodded and thanked her gruffly, and for a moment Dave was annoyed that someone would talk to Roxy like that, crass and dismissive.

"Call it what you please, hun," she shrugged, leaning back against the counter top with her heels wobbly under her feet. "But I think you make a really cute couple."

"We're not – Roxy, how many times I gotta say this?" Dave asked, incredulous and frustrated and turning away to work at his job again in annoyance. "I just got him mad last night ‘cause I brushed him off pretty bad and he didn't deserve that kinda treatment."

Finally giving up the joking attitude for something resembling sympathy, Roxy placed her hand again on his shoulder, but this time it wasn't in a small little act of passively aggression; she was genuinely serious about this now. Dave may say what he liked about her and her methods, but she could be sweet and caring when she needed to be, and he was glad that he could have that kind of support from her.

"What was it about?"

Shrugging, Dave closed the flaps on the full box of now sorted wine and gave her a quick glance. "He was talkin' about planes an–"

"Ah," she cut in, nodding again, "No need to say anymore. You and him plus planes is such a bad combo. Such a bad, bad, recipe for disaster."

Levelling a confused look in her direction, Dave picked up the cardboard, grunting as the weight pulled at his shoulders. He carried it to the store room behind them, Roxy on his heels as she explained.

"How do you not know this by now? I thought you would have noticed this kind of thing. Look, I know the whole deal with your brother got you really, like, insanely into planes and stuff – "

"I'm not into planes," he interjected, hefting the heavy box onto a lower shelf among other rows of aged wines and stored spirits. It was organized that way, neat labels making selection easier. There was one box alongside the others, unmarked, and Dave pulled it open and gave it a check for the contents. "Not one bit."

Roxy snorted, and then gave a real laugh as Dave pulled a marker from his pocket and began meticulously labelling the container. "Right, obviously. You definitely don't drool about planes on your break or anything. That is definitely not a thing that you do all the flippin' time."

Deciding to stay silent on this one thing, since she was honestly right, he shoved the box back into place and brushed past her, coming back out to the store front.

"Anyways," she continued, elbows lazily plopping down on the counter and eyes on him, "You think planes are pretty cool – don't even try and deny that one, mister. And he flies planes, so you like him. But you _don't_ like him for the way he _talks_ about planes." Dave bristled, about to interject, but she silenced him, continued on fearlessly. "He kind of views planes like they're this huge toy and a lot of fun and not really a big deal, even though he loves them just as much as you do. But you love them differently, like they're really important to you and sentimental and so hearing him being very chilled about flying feels kind of icky, right?"

Flicking his eyes towards her with a small scowl, Dave didn't respond. Even so, that was all the response Roxy needed for confirmation.

"And so you like John a lot – _not in that way, I get it –_ but you can't stand him when he talks about planes, even when that's the whole reason you like him. It's not that complicated, I don't see why you didn't figure it out yourself."

Dave needed a moment or two to think this over, since really, he had never considered the events surrounding John in such a way. It certainly made sense though. Taking up his usual seat across from Mayor, he sunk his chin into his palms, staring vacantly at the people milling about in the busy, warmly lit store. He didn't know how he felt about John at all on a personal basis, but this probably explained why he sometimes just narrowly avoided the urge to strangle him and use the body as a welcome mat for the bar.

"You're lying," he said, giving her a sidelong look, "It is complicated. A lot."

Humming in agreement, Roxy leaned her shoulder against his. She may have truly been tipsy and a little unsteady on her legs, or maybe she was just tired from being in her shoes all day. Either way, it was a nice sort of gesture, non-suggestive and friendly, warm as she pressed into him for support. "Was I right though?" she pressed on.

"Yeah. Maybe a bit."

"About everything?"

"Well," he said, thinking back to what she had said, "Yeah."

At that, her face cracked into a huge grin and she took hold of Dave's forearm, bouncing a few times in glee as he realized the horror of his mistake. He hadn't meant that in concordance with _all_ of what she had said. "Oh, I'm so happy for you two! Hopefully things will work out well with him, and if not," she gasped, sparing no amount of theatrics for her announcement, which Dave was only slightly in comprehension of, "You could always come to the Social! Oh, why didn't I think of this before? You'd be _per_ fect for it, absolutely perfect. You'll love it."

Scrambling to catch up with her train of thought, Dave took his arm away from her iron clench, brows lowered and gaze suspicious. "Wait, wait, hold on for just a second here," he issued, both hands out in a defensive stance. "What in the hell are you talkin' on about here? A social? I don't go to no god damn _soc_ ials, I'll have you know." When Dave imagined the word social, he thought of his cousins, dainty and fair girls in frills and pressed dresses, sharing cute narratives about their encounters of tall, dark and handsome men met in the middle of the afternoon, all of them tittering with polite excitement and sipping at their sugar sweetened tea from bone china cups, tiny flowers painted on the sides and little tea cozies, knitted and prepared just for the occasion, resting on their laps.

"Psssh," was the only reply Roxy gave him, waving her hand out to him to put a stop to his little internal crisis at the thought of attending a woman’s only tea social. "It's not really a social, that's just what we call it. If anything, it's more of a party."

"So it's like one of your flapper clubs, but by invite only? The hell has this got to do with anything of me?"

"No, you goose," she scoffed. "It's a gathering for _like minded citizens_ , who want to mingle and chat. And there is tea, sorry, but that part's unavoidable."

Frowning, Dave tried to make sense of this "like minded citizens" nonsense. Like minded about what? People that were also confused about their pilot friends? Seemed unlikely, but he was willing to bite.

"Rox, sorry, but you're gonna need to elaborate here," he said flatly, looking up at her as she continued to lean on him.

She drew a deep breath, as if having to go into detail was such a _chore_ , even when she just spent the better part of 15 minutes chatting his ear off, nattering about how he was most _definitely_ in love with his friend.

Fortunately, she didn't even need to press on, since it seemed Rose had been alleviated from her post at the bar till, a smooth lull occurring in the stream of people needing to pay up before leaving the speakeasy. She came towards them, apparently having overheard the topic of their discussion.

"She's referring to a very discreet gathering," Rose said cryptically, a demure smile on her lips as she looked Dave over, who was beginning to get the sense of a small creature of prey being hawked upon by two maliciously intelligent, birds. "Where individuals of open mind can get together, intermingle, share experiences and receive support for the troubling world we live in."

Dave loved Rose, but sometimes she was no help at all.

He continued frowning, providing enough silence that Rose had to go on, pressing closer towards her meaning and then skirting around it, lips upturned.

"You know, sometimes one needs the company of people with similar intentions, ones who understand them. People who aren't out to judge, let's say? Coy greetings among friends, warm hugs, you know, that kind of thing. Any of this ringing some toll bells in your mind? No? Alright, Dave, I really didn't think I'd need to do this with a man so keen on keeping up with the intellectual Jones' as yourself, but crudely put –"

"It's a gay club," Roxy cut in, grinning.

For a moment, Dave had to sit in silence, letting the implications settle in for a little while. Mayor, sitting in front of him, smacked the counter a few times due to his silent laughter, filling the void of silence.

"You guys don't _really_ think I'm gay, right?" he asked, glaring at both of them in turn, each receiving the look with expressions of Cheshire-like pleasure.

"I've had girlfriends before, for chrissakes!"

"True," Roxy said, one finger delicately placed on her bottom lip as she looked out over the room theatrically, "But then again, I've had boyfriends before."

He stared, let his jaw hang loose for a moment or two as he let the thought sink in, and was finally broken from his reverie as Mayor tittered breathily in his seat, very pleased with the comedic turn of events.

"Dave," Rose interjected once more, her voice a little calmer than Roxy's, "Think about it. Why would two young women even know about a clandestine homosexual gathering if they had no interest in attending? And if they did attend, what can you gather from that evidence?"

"You're…" he said obtusely, piecing it together at the speed of frozen molasses, "... I had no idea all this time. Shouldn't I have been able to tell?"

Roxy scoffed, rolling her eyes. "You really do need to go to the club once in a while," she instructed, "‘cause most of them are just as normal as we are."

"Some even more so," Rose smirked.

Still struggling to keep up, Dave glanced from both sisters, brows furrowed and levelled. "I'm not going," he stated simply. "That's great and all for both of you two, but it's not for me. Look –" He gave a glance around the room and lowered his voice a fraction as he leaned in closer to them, "No matter if I like some guys or not – I'm not going. That kind of stuff's not for me. You two go, have fun, whatever. This isn't anything to do with me."

The Lalonde sisters shared a sly little look, sent to towards Dave with nigh perfect synchronization, and then smiled. Dave, pinned and visible for an inspection at their mercy, like a butterfly tacked to the mounting block, leaned back in his chair uneasily. Mayor by his side only grinned, a gleeful gleam in his eye.

He was not going to go. There was absolutely no way in hell they could make him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what time it is? Time for a friendly author interlude! 
> 
> Ok, ok, hold the groaning, you can skip this bit if you want, but I found it interesting to learn that there really were a few so-called "socials" in this era (That is, if wikipedia and a few other less-than-credible sources can be cited. Pardon this fault in my researching -- planning a novel is hard and I got lazy). Anyways, some of the speakeasies and public areas in this time period were actually owned and operated with the selling feature of being "gay friendly", or so to speak. The extreme case of these instances came to a head in Manhattan, where something called the Pansy Craze sprouted up, but that was about a decade or so after my plot occurs, so I decided to leave the Lalonde's little meeting place to be a smaller affair, a sort of prelude to the much more audacious parties that would follow. 
> 
> Alright, history class over, I promise I'll keep my interjections curtailed in future chapters. Hope you're liking it so far, this has been a ton of fun to write and share!


	4. Saturday May 31, 1922

Surprisingly to Dave, and not so surprising to the rest of the world, it didn't take John long at all to warm back up to Dave, melting the tension between them like thin ice spun into a pool of warm water, as if it had never even been an issue. He had come back the next night after Dave's encounter with the Lalonde sisters, carrying his big grin and stupid face, and suddenly everything was ok again because John had said it was. Dave wanted to, felt like he needed at least to apologize in some way, to make amends for how stupid he had been and would probably continue to be, but John never even brought the topic back up, even going so far as to divert the situation when Dave asked about his work, apparently cautious about the subject of planes. Maybe he had caught on to the same thing that Roxy had. It wouldn't have been a miracle if he had.

Even though he was initially wary of how easily he had been forgiven and how readily the situation had been brushed under the carpet, Dave soon found himself relaxing. John's laughter and whole hearted joking began to serve as a solid reminder to him that _this_ was the man that came into a bar and ordered chocolate milk with a completely straight face – a little tiff about planes was not going to dent his blitheness.

After that, John came back night after night, as he always did, and things went seamlessly back to normal. Roxy and Rose seemed to stop pestering him about the situation once he went back into good standing with his friend, though they did give him small little glances, sly smiles at points in time when Dave was laughing too hard at a bad joke from John, or even catching him smiling idly at him. He still firmly believed that there was nothing between them and probably never would be, considering John's obtuseness, but he had to admit that it was nice sometimes, just to imagine what might be.

Sometimes, he still did catch himself thinking he might strangle the poor guy and he thought that maybe, that feeling would just never go away. But those instances came far and few between, wedged in between long stretches of amiable conversation, so maybe he wasn't that unbearable after all. Maybe John wasn't that much of an idiot.

Dave knew though, that he was lying to himself and anyone else if he tried to say that that John wasn't a huge, intolerable moron. He knew this, because John was the only person he knew who would fearlessly walk down main street in full, plain sight of the entire known world while wearing a ridiculously blue and very stupid looking fuzzy hat atop his head. It was fringed in ridiculous waves of teal blue tassells and covered in cheap sequins, and it was big enough to fall down from the crown of his head if he turned it the wrong way, slipping down to hit the bridge of his nose, but he wore it with a fierce passion anyways and grinned fearlessly at anyone daring enough to look at him sideways.

Dave was towed along with him, hands stuffed into pockets and wondering _why on earth_ he was here with John. It was generally simple to avoid the unwanted attention of people on the streets since John drew so very many looks and funny gazes on his own, but he did get a few curious stares as he walked alongside him, made odd by association. Then again, Mayor also suffered that same fate but he seemed to be enjoying the attention of being included in John's little entourage on the rain slick streets of the local bar district, beaming and smiling at passerbys that were interested in John's out of the norm fashion choices, revelling in his limelight.

John though, was without a doubt the star of tonight's impromptu entertainment. He had found the hat at a discount store in the afternoon before he arrived at R&R's and presented it to his mortified bartender with a flourish, eager to tell him that it would be coming along with them for their planned evening. The longer he stayed in his vicinity, the more Dave was tempted with the opportunity to snatch it off his head by force and stash it somewhere no one would ever see again – like the dumpster out back.

Instead, he had been unnaturally gracious and let him keep the stupid thing, and as a result, John would not shut up about how that meant he _obviously_ loved it and therefore he would have to honour Dave's fondness for the hat and never, ever dispose of it.

So he wore it out for the night when they scouted out some of the bars and clubs together. Mayor, of course, was always invited, and the three of them had driven in John's car to his house to pick up his sister, who was apparently just _dying_ to meet this charming bartender man that John could simply not shut up about. During this exchange in fact, John's face went a curious shade of beet red as his sister explained how he sometimes he could go on and on and on about their conversations and experiences, but all that anyone did about it was smile and Mayor giggled in his hoarse kind of way and poked at John's flushed cheeks till he swatted him away, irritated.

John's home was much more impressive than Dave's own tiny apartment was, his sprawling front lawn painted green from the recent rains and thorough tending. At his gawking, John had only laughed and explained that it was their late parents – old money in the family apparently. Mayor could care less about the estate actually, but he was very infatuated with the idea of a car, and the steering wheel in particular. Leaning up enthusiastically from the backseat of the small car, he poked at John untill he got the message and was allowed to drive around in their huge driveway for a bit as they waited for Jade's exit from the house. It was haphazard and wild driving, like most things about Mayor, but at least he didn't crash into anything, and he didn't even tip the cabin, so John was still in a good mood as he overtook the controls again to get all four of them back into town.

Jade was reminiscent of her brother in a lot of ways, but she seemed to have a knowledge of how to not be an ass, and she also had a much more feminine laugh than John's own snorting, auditory mess. She was easy to get along with and it seemed like Mayor took an instant liking to her as well, so for now, Dave was perfectly ok with letting her join the group as they went out to have some fun for once.

Most of the night was spent drifting in from one damp bar to another, dodging raindrops and buying and drinking cumulatively more than they should have.

By the time all four of them branched out to the iridescently wet cobble stones, the night growing stale on their tongues, they were reduced to a laughing mess. Dave was having to lean on John's shoulder for support as he choked through his laughter from another terrible, terrible joke, and for now able to ignore the stupidity of his hat only for the fact that the sidewalk seemed to rise and sink like ocean waves beneath him, distracting him so well from embarrassment of being seen like this. John himself was pretty far gone as well, his ridiculous hat actually making sense to be fit atop a drunk, but Jade and Mayor were notably still sober. Maybe they just weren't lightweights who only drank chocolate milk on a regular basis, or maybe they just didn't feel the need to drown themselves in a woozy blur of drink. Dave had no excuse for how drastically he had reacted to the reasonably small amount of liquor he had downed. He really didn't make it a habit of drinking though, which was odd given his profession. The few times he _did_ indulge, it felt as if making it a worthwhile occasion was a totally necessary pursuit. Go big or go home with an empty hangover, that was the way he saw it.

John continued sputtering through tales and jokes as they walked, most of them hardly coherent and largely buffoonish to a sober mind. Though the jokes made no sense to Dave anymore, the punch lines lost to his drink addled mind, he laughed anyways, entertained greatly by John's wheezing fits of giggles as they trundled in a group along the rain stained walkways. They were making their slow way back to John's car, parked out in the far side of their part of town, ditched and forgotten on a curb. They had wandered far away from it, far enough to regret as they dragged their tired, hysterical selves towards it.

Dave may have been using John as a support system, but John was using Jade for the exact same purpose, his weight heavily transferred to the thinner girl. She handled it just fine, surprisingly tough for her size, and nearly carried them back to the car where she dumped the boys into the back seat and let Mayor sit up front with her as she drove them back to their respective homes. Mayor seemed just fine with that decision, oggling at the controls and trying to take over navigation of the wheel a few dozen times. Dave had to hand it to the girl, since of the few times that he was conscious enough to see her in action, she took care of Mayor's attacks with effectiveness and brutality, and he was honestly a little in awe of her resistance, though that may have just been the alcohol making him easily impressionable.

John too, seemed to be pretty impressed by his sister, but her driving abilities specifically. His gaze was latched to the window of the outside world, watching it whizz by in his no doubt woozy vision.

"Wow, Jade," he said over the hum of the engine, "You are driving _so_ fast."

"It's not really all that fast," she laughed, turning off of the busier streets and onto the country streets leading back to their home. Dave had been planning on heading to his own place for the night, but as it stood now, he was hardly in a position to argue with her choices, and he gave in, somewhat pleased with the idea of finally getting to see what the interior of John's home looked like. "You drive faster than this all the time!"

John was not easily persuaded by her statement and he waved out one hand into the centre of the cabin, nearly hitting Dave on the swing back. "No, but!" he said in the halting, confused speech so characteristic of people of his current sobriety. "You are a _re_ ally good driver, Jade! Almost as good as me."

Snorting at that, Dave pushed John's wayward arm away from his face. "You're a really shitty driver, buster."

"I'm not!" John turned to him, evidently taking the petty insult to heart.

Jade, blessed with the ability to tolerate stupidity, cut in before real blows were drunkenly landed. "He's an ok driver! Not the best, but ok."

Smug that his point had still been defended, Dave smirked and then turned back to Jade. She was pretty smart – he liked her.

"Well, yeah," John consented, still a little pouty from the jab. "No one else is as good at driving as us. But it's because we're brother and sister! That makes us the same level of driving. "

"That ain't got nothing to do with it," Dave said, frowning in return.

"Oh yeah?" he countered, voice getting louder as he got more interested in the squabble, "Then how is she such a good driver? It's because I’m a good driver, and so we both are. This is science, Dave!"

"He does have a bit of a point, I guess," Jade said, again cutting in, "We are pretty similar in a lot of ways! Driving is one of them."'

"A HAH!" John explained with a triumphant finger jabbed into the air, pleased as punch that his argument was being fortified by the least drunk of them all. "We are _so_ alike, some people think we are married."

"No way," Dave said, disbelief turning his tone rougher, "You look way too similar – way, way similar. They'd know you were related."

"Hm," John hummed, ponderously placing a finger to his lip and then looking from Dave to Jade a few times. "I guess so. But then again, we do spend a whole lot of time with each other. That’s not something all siblings do when they get older. So maybe that's why they think we're married."

Rolling his eyes, Dave was ready to give up, but John pressed on, looking to him with renewed verve. "They might think that about us!" he gasped, looking almost mortified with excitement, "Dave, does anyone think we're married?"

Frowning and trying to recall if anyone did, he shook his head. "Maybe some people? No one really thinks we're married though. But they might think stuff like that. I dunno." It was taking all his willpower now not to mention or let slip of his previous conversation with Rose and Roxy, both of whom thought that there was something more between the both of them.

Thinking this over, John nodded, seemed to be content with the answer.

Jade was quiet as well, but she glanced back a few times with a small, interested look on her face.

The car was already nearing the estate by the time they lulled into a silence, and Jade drove them up towards the front entrance. The building wasn't _huge_ , and it certainly wasn't a mansion, but it was large and ostentatious and the front door had a vintage _knocker_ that resounded across the dark, warmly lit patio, for crissakes. It was all a little much for Dave to take in as he stumbled in after John, his hand pressed to the small of his back for support.

Jade was ushering all of them up the stairs to crash for the night and she noted regretfully that they really only had two bedrooms and the same number of beds. Somehow getting his message across to Jade, Dave was too inebriated to notice of how, Mayor conveyed the reasoning that he'd take the couch downstairs, in the living room. Leaving with a bundle of linen cloths in her arms, Jade led Mayor back down the stairs to get the couch ready for him, leaving John and Dave alone at the top of the stair's landing to sort out their own sleeping conditions. John shouldered open the door to a bedroom, and Dave followed him in.

"I ain't taking the floor," Dave said gruffly, looking around to the well furnished room, John's bedspread light blue and irresistibly fluffy looking as he stumbled towards it. Chiming off some remark or other in protest, John tried to make it there first, tripping over Dave's feet in an insurmountable act of clumsiness. Both of them crossed the quilted finish line at the same time, falling rather gracelessly face first into the downy comforter.

John made a muffled groan, shifting beside him, but Dave didn't move to get up or look at him.

"...I think I broke my entire face," he mumbled morosely, his voice coupled with the muffled shuffling of him getting up onto the mattress more fully, the blanket being tugged out from under Dave. It was his turn now to complain, mumbling incoherently into the fluff in protest.

"Come on," John sighed, giving another weak tug to the strong stitched cotton fabric, "Get your big oaf butt off of that. It's mine."

Still making unintelligible groaning noises, Dave lifted his head just enough to speak without swallowing the entirety of the fabric with his breath. "I can't," he managed to get out, his speech drowsy and dragging across his thick tongue, "The blankets have accepted me as the one true, prophesied ruler of them. I'm the blanket _God_ , John, you don't…" He had to shift up more to look at him through bleary eyes, resting up on his elbows. "You don't understand. This is my calling. I can't let them down now."

Giving an unamused look, John sighed and rolled off the bed and into a miraculously standing position, a mess of legs and loose jointed arms, and then staggered over to his closet once he had regained precious balance. Dave watched him, finding the act of keeping his head upright and looking at him to be such a herculean effort, and blinked when he saw him forcefully tugging out a small bundle of spare blankets from the closet shelves. They weren't as nice as the ones he lay on now, and when John flopped them out over the bed, laying them over half of his body, they were a little itchy and uncomfortable to the touch.

The room went darker suddenly, Dave realizing that John had hit the lightswitch before returning to the beside. "Ok," John was saying in a very business like voice as he climbed under the new covers, or at least as businesslike as one could manage after knocking back a few too many drinks. "You stay on your side and don't steal my blankets. And –" He paused here, grunting under his breath as he took a moment to roll over to face away from Dave. "And if you need to go to the bathroom – there's one down the hall."

Somehow finding the effort to climb up the rest of the way to rest on the mattress, getting his legs to flops over onto the bed, Dave stretched out comfortably, all his limbs drawn and spread eagle as he lay on his back. His hand was touching John's head, who complained wordlessly, and so he pressed against his temple more forcefully just in spite. Finally, letting his body slacken when the stretch left him feeling loose, he settled down onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, limitless and infinite, without bounds to his mind right now. He yawned, tilted his head to look at the back of John's head in the gloom, and then smiled very, very lazily, just barely a corner of his lips upturned and nothing else.

"Night," he mumbled, mouth hardly moving, tongue sluggish to form the word.

John hummed, his back turned to Dave and broad in its silhouette against the velvety black of the sky that spilled in from his open window. It was ridiculous, but for just an instant, the immense urge to curl up next to him was overwhelming. He wanted to feel his warmth even though he had the heavy blankets there covering him for that very reason. It was only a short impulse, and easily ignorable, but it made him feel uneasy during the short minutes it took Dave to fall into a deep, alcohol induced sleep.

And if either of them, in the unconsciousness of night and the accidental movements of the sleeping dead, were to press up against each other throughout the dark night or squeeze just a little closer till they were touching, till they were sharing the same breaths with every heartbeat, then the other wouldn't make a fuss of it. These things happened, they consoled themselves, each to his own mind during the minorly awkward morning after, when both of them found their bodies curled and snuggled tight against each other, slightly sweaty and stale from the time spent in such a warm room. Extracting themselves from the situation with tact and apologetic, hesitant smiles, both of them made a wordless promise to themselves that this wasn't something that was going to be spoken of again, even if thoughts of it got stuck in Dave's mind like putty smeared into textile, sackcloth fabric, hard to remove and noticeable and yet ignored all the same.

These things just happened sometimes, and they didn't mean a single thing.

  


 


	5. Saturday June 7, 1922

"Daaavey! Come on out already!"

Dave considered himself to be, for the most part, a patient, forgiving sort of man. After all, to even become friends with someone like John Egbert indicated that he was indeed long suffering, perhaps to a fault.

There were exceptions to his patience though. This was one of those few, but firm exceptions.

If there was really only one thing that Dave could not cooperate with while remaining in his right mind, it was trying on clothes that other people had so _thought_ fully selected for him. His mother had done that to him, once upon a time when he was a small boy and a suit fitting was reason enough to throw a tantrum with untied bow-ties tossed about in a fit, shoes left off in defiance and pouts worn over a mouthful of missing teeth.

He had not outgrown that feeling at all in the span of his adulthood.

Roxy, obviously did not care.

The entire notion that he had to actually dress _up_ for this affair seemed insubstantial to him, not to mention entirely ridiculous. Roxy had called him a baby when he voiced that opinion, boasting that just about _ev_ eryone who was _an_ yone decked themselves out in fine attire just for the occasion, and so he should as well.

Glowering and no longer bothering to put up a solid fight in his defence, Dave had only taken the hangered clothing from her and stuffed himself into the tiny bathroom in her apartment as she waited outside for him to change. She had a painting of a dainty woman with a parasol and a lacey hat hanging over the toilet, and Dave turned around from it before he stripped.

He felt like a clown as he stepped out again, tugging at the hem of his suit jacket in short, jerked motions.

Not only that, but he felt like a very _poorly dressed_ clown, which was leagues worse than the average joker.

Roxy, on the other hand, looked absolutely delighted in the new reveal, letting out an excited squeal as she inspected him, circling him once, then twice. Her quick hands reached out to pull at his shoulder mantle till it sat properly on his slender back, and then touched tersely at the collar, shifting it up closer to his neck. She tsked under her breath before speaking, eyes still glued to the suit.

"I was hoping you would have sprung for the tailored suit," she chided, palms smoothing out his narrow shoulder pieces once more.

He found it odd to note that she didn't bring out the most noticeable flaw about his attire, that being the suit – jacket and pants both – were dyed a very ostentatious, very _pink_ colour. They had argued over that once before already, when Roxy had first picked it out in the tailor's shop, holding it up against his clothed chest as she eyed the colour match and he had whined like the child he had felt like. She had been very insistent that it was not pink, but rather a deep maroon and therefore would look absolutely _stunning_ when combined with the intensity of Dave's eyes. He knew that she was bluffing, or at least he hoped that she was, but there were very few other options held before him at that moment than to buy the damn thing and get her off his back before she made him buy anything even more stupid. The store owner had picked out a clean cut pair of brown shoes to complete the look, shined and polished, and Dave had to admit, he rather liked those.

He still found it awful that Roxy thought it was necessary for him to buy an entire new outfit just to go to a social that he had no interest in attending _anyways_. There had been yet another half hearted argument over that as well, but as Dave already knew, fighting with Roxy was a sure-fire way to lose, and he resigned himself to his pink suited fate.

"Not like I could have really afforded that," he reminded, folding his arms against his chest. The fabric was much finer than his usual suits, bending and folding easily and forming to his body with a much better fit than he was accustomed to. "The price I paid for this was god awful, and you _do_ know I'm never going to wear this thing out in public again. One time being seen in a pink suit is bad enough."

"It's not pink!" she laughed, slapping his lightly on the upper arm. It didn't hurt at all, but he still rubbed ruefully at the spot afterwards. "And besides, you look _really_ dashing. Might pick up a few handsome men while we're out there." She winked, which only made the statement worse.

Sighing in exasperation and rubbing at the base of his neck for a moment, Dave tried to fight away the need to argue with her. He was still very adamantly trying to explain to her that he wasn't a homosexual, but it seemed like today, when he had already caved in to her relentless pressure and agreed to go visit the club, agreed to buy a _pink_ suit, he might as well let this comment slide as well.

"Can we just go already?"

  


Roxy was pretty determined to not be late, even though the entire concept of being late to a social affair was more or less how Dave operated. All the same, he dragged himself along with her into a taxi cab, brandishing only a morosely glum expression as the driver made an amused face at his ludicrous outfit. Roxy kept insisting that he really did look great, but he didn't quite buy it and he was beginning to suspect that it was all an elaborate and sneaky ruse to get him to publicly humiliate himself.

At least Roxy looked polished, and _normal_ too, dressed to the fashion nines in a sleeveless dress, the lace of her bodice a pale cream and overlaid against a darker shade of pink silk. To be fair, she always looked rather stunning, whether she tried or not, and though she was impossible not to notice in either aspect of personality nor physical appearance, Dave found that he really was not romantically inclined to her at all. In his mind, it always seemed to him that she was off limits with her ongoing relationship, and so he adopted a rather brotherly form of affection for her, similar to the one he had with Rose, but minus a considerable amount of snark and sass and added to a formidable lump of petty tiffs.

The venue for the social, Roxy informed him on the drive over, was at a rowing club's hall and backed onto a incredibly spacious river where the team practised. Apparently, some of the original founders of the meet and greet belonged to the rowers team, so housing it there seemed like the most logical choice. Dave was ok with that, he guessed, and the actual sight of the place was nearly exactly what he had been expecting.

It seemed that roses were there garish theme of the place, flowering bushes of them bordering the driveway up to the front entrance, vines twirling and dancing across the century slab stone brick of the walls. The smell of them were fragrant and nearly overpowering to him as he exited the cab, the buds in full bloom after the rainy spring they had seen.

It felt, funnily enough, that his suit actually fit in here, the pink hues of his coat melding with the red and rosey vibes of the crawling vines, and somehow that only made him feel a little like laughing and still a lot like leaving.

Roxy, as always, had other ideas.

She towed him along like a raft moored to a tug boat, guiding him through the front door after he started expressing some of his cold feeted reluctance. The front parlour of the ornate building opened out quickly into the spacious hall, the waxed tiled floor gleaming and reflecting off of the electric lights that were strung up high on the ceiling. People of all sorts of fashion milled around, some holding purses or bags, others holding tea cups and having one hand on their little brooches pinned to their chests, touching them absently. Hardly anyone, Dave noted, wore a suit that was more awful than his own, and he sent a jab into Roxy's ribs for that, which only sent her laughing. There was a surprisingly large number of women in the place, which struck Dave as odd for some reason. When he thought of the gay community, he had envisioned multitudes of men, but here the mix of genders was just about even.

Initially, he had been planning on skirting around the edges of the crowd, perhaps finding some tea to put in his hand and make himself look less noticeable and less likely for someone to come to his side for conversation, but Roxy was having none of that. She toted him around proudly, showing him off to members of the club, old friends apparently, ones to whom she greeted with what he could only guess to be platonic kisses on the cheeks and hugs. It seemed like an endless list of people that he needed to be antiquated to: the chairman for the club, the volunteer comity president, the good friends of Roxy who joined her on some more adventurous parties, on and on the list went, such a diverse group of people that it was beginning to make Dave's head spin.

Finally, after he had shook the hands of so many people that he was starting to feel like a wash of his hands was in order, Roxy pulled him along to meet "just one more person, Davey, then you can go scrub yourself in the bathroom or something."

The final person he had been commissioned to speak to, it seemed, was someone of actual importance and value. Roxy led him down the vast hall, her shoes clicking delicately on the polished tiles, her dress swishing just slightly with each springy step. Ushering him out to the spot where the refreshments were being doled out, she sidestepped from the small line formed for tea and instead scooted out to behind the refreshments table.

Roxy left Dave's side in order to do that, which sent him into an illogical sense of vulnerability, since she had served as his personal guard in this foreign landscape for the past quarter of an hour or so and now, untied from his tether to her, he began to feel a little aimless. He hovered at the threshold of the main area, uncertain if he too was allowed to the back of the table, and watched as his tour guide greeted a lady, slightly shorter than herself and with a similar hair style to her own – short, carefully pinned and stylish. Despite the same hair, the two of them seemed to be almost polar opposites in appearance, Roxy's vibrant blonde hair and boisterous smile reflected as a much more subdued version in the other lady – darker, calmer features and a softer, more polite smile. After hugging her and sharing a few words that he could not hear, Roxy tuned back to glance at Dave. She seemed surprised that he hadn't followed after her.

Obeying the hand motions she was wildly making at him, Dave made his way over, nearly tripping on the silken table cloth of the covered the table. He was glad that it hadn't come tumbling off, since the entire table was laden with confectioneries – pastries, sweets, little chocolate dipped biscuits and cream filled puffs. It all looked rather decadent to Dave, enticing and needlessly over the top, but then again, he supposed this entire place was like that in most regards.

Roxy grabbed at his arm as he came over reluctantly, making him stand right beside her to face this next, and promised last, acquaintance. He felt a little like a young child again, dragged with his mother to an endlessly fancy party and forced to meet and greet with all the various old ladies in crotchety knitted knickers while he dreamed about being _anywhere_ but there. At least there was food here, and he snatched up a cupcake from the table and took a quick bite before bothering to extend his hand to the shorter woman.

"Dave, this is Jane," Roxy said, a characteristic smile on her features as she looked from one to the other.

Shaking her hand dully and taking another fast bite of his cake, Dave nodded. "Yeah." Honestly, he wasn't all that interested in this prolonged meeting with these people he'd likely never speak to again. At this point his manners were beginning to slip as he got lazy with the polite standards. Jane seemed like she was a little put off by this shaky display of hospitality, her smile glitching a little.

Roxy, apparently, wasn't done with greetings, and pressed on in an insistent voice. "Dave, she's my _girlfriend_."

He nearly choked trying to swallow the wad of cake in his mouth. Blinking, Dave looked from one to the other with a face of embarrassment. He had always known Roxy was taken by someone and he'd recently been acquainted with the notion that she took a fancy to girls, but coming face to face with her, and after being so nonchalant about greeting her only moments before, was a bit of a shock. Holding the half eaten cupcakes in one hand, hoping it was less noticeable and rude when it was at his side, Dave blinked at Jane again, trying to think of how to recover from his blunder.

"Hey, wow, I've heard a lot about you," he fumbled, and then frowned, realizing it wasn't quite correct. "I mean, I've heard _of_ you. Not really you, as in about you, but you as in the stuff you do with Roxy, like dates and stuff. Yeah. She goes on a lot of dates with you."

Roxy seemed mortified by his shameful word vomit, a deep scowl on her face, but Jane only nervously laughed it off and took a cupcake from the pile that Dave had already started on.

"That's understandable," she said, nodding a few times to herself, "Roxy and I both agreed to keep quiet about our relationship. Things just tend to get messy when everyone's in the know of something like this, right? Anyways, I really have heard a lot about you, and it was all good, don't worry." Jane smiled through a laugh, patting Roxy's arm vaguely. "Roxy's good about that – all good gossip, trust me."

It seemed that everyone could loosen up a little after that, Jane's peace making setting everyone at ease again. It turned out that all the desserts on the table were made by Jane herself, which seemed almost unfair for how professional and perfect they all were. Roxy explained that she worked at a bakery and that most of the things in the shop were created, from original recipe to final product, but Jane. Impressed, Dave had joked about having to move in across from the street of her shop, to which Jane only laughed and shook her head, seeming to warm up to him well considering his early mistakes.

Glad that things were going well and that the only person of importance he had met today was a breeze to get along with, Dave excused himself for the bathroom, ducking away with his used cupcake wrapper crumpled in hand.

He made a pit stop along the way to a garbage bin, tossing the liner out, and as he turned around again to head for the bathroom and some seriously needed time without people hemming him in on all sides, he bumped directly into a man, broader and taller than him and chuckling with a deep, rich tone as he fumbled to regain his balance.

"Well hello to you too, chap," the man laughed. As Dave looked at him, unaccustomed to looking up to see much of anyone, he saw that he had bumped into a pleasant enough looking man, his combed and slicked hair dark in the sheen of the lights. He wore glasses, wire framed and narrow, and a wide, nearly perfect smile. Dave got the sense from him that he was used to having people swoon over his face alone, his confident charisma overpowering, almost like a whiff of condensed perfume smelled right from the bottle.

Dave was also getting the sense that he wanted to leave. He didn't feel unsafe, but the man omitted a general air of accidental intimidation, as if by his very existence he made Dave feel inferior.

"You're new here, aren't you?"

There really wasn't any way to excuse himself after a conversation was started like that and Dave's shoulders sagged in dismay. Looked like his vacation from the noise would have to be postponed.

"Yeah," he shrugged, trying not to be overly rude and yet at the same time, not giving him any ideas that he was enjoying himself here. "Friend of mine brought me here. Not really my kind of field trip, but I can't say no to her, can I?"

"Hmm," he agreed, nodding. The broke from his sagely stance with a start. "Oh, but heaven to Betsy look at me, forgetting introductions! I'm Jake." The man, Jake, stuck out his meaty paw.

Introductions. Dave was starting to hate that word more and more with every passing minute, but he shook his hand all the same.

"Dave. But look," he started, taking a lazy step back and jerking a thumb in the direction of the side hall, "I gotta –"

"I won't keep you long, chum!" Jake was speaking over him, quite loudly as well. His calloused hand clapped onto Dave's shoulder, which was horrendously dwarfed in comparison. "You haven't tried the tea yet, hm? Oh, blimey, old Crocker definitely knows how to put a kettle to brew. Come on now, you should try it."

Feeling a little like a his only role in life was to follow after people to an assortment of sights that really, he did not give a single shit about, Dave kindly extricated himself, ducking under Jake's arm as he returned again on his path to the bathroom. "No really," he excused, trying to sound apologetic, "Think I ate a little too much cake and a bathroom is sounding pretty damn good right now."

The man apparently took the bait, or he was very good at hiding his knowledge, and he nodded with a sympathetic smile. "You get to that then, Dave. I'll be seeing you around?"

"Yeah, for sure," he said, as if it was entirely obvious and that he was not, in fact, lying through his teeth. Once he was dismissed, Dave steered himself safely to the confines of the less densely populated halls, navigating the easily traversed pathway to the men's bathroom.

His head was bent slightly, hoping, almost on the verge of praying, that he wouldn't catch the attention of anyone else who wanted to make some goddamn "introductions" with him. Fortune though, was apparently not on his side this day and as Dave began turning a corner, of the narrow, ornately decorated halls, he blundered directly into another man, who apparently was exiting the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind him.

Looking at him and taking a moment to register as he regained his footing, Dave first felt a wave of overpowering embarrassment, and then confusing that toppled over his already muddled mind.

" _Dave?"_ the other man asked, obviously confused as well.

He tried to wipe the wide eyed, lowered brow look off his face, but he was in such a state of bewilderment that it was hard to even focus on something as complex as his facial muscles.

"...Hey John," he squeaked.

They stood there for a few moments, staring at each other in mute shock.

John was the first to break the silence, his expression cracked into a smile.

"Pft, what are you even _wear_ ing?"

Dave, already flustered, blushed heavily at the comment, looking down at his ludicrous suit and pants, his loud and noticeable tie. The entire get up was hopelessly gaudy, no matter what Roxy said about it when he was in the store with her.

John himself was dressed much like he always did – awfully. Despite that, he was wearing a surprisingly nice suit with a deep, satin blue tie. It looked good on him, even if the tie was crooked and his hair was an everlasting disaster, his eyes still shined, and his lips were still barely a hair's width from smiling at any given moment.

"Roxy made me wear it," Dave said glumly, glancing over his shoulder, as if to check she wasn't there to hear him badmouth her fashion choices.

Apparently finding this hilarious, John snorted and stuffed his hands in his pockets. For a moment after, when the spontaneity of their meeting wore off, and the laughter subsided, and the situation was simply… strange, and perhaps a little uncomfortable. Frowning faintly, John looked at the floor before looking back up. He did that a lot, Dave noticed, as if consulting some very gracious tile god before speaking.

"Roxy made you come?"

Unsure whether to agree readily, not certain if John was actually a regular member here as well and also not aware if showing disdain for this place would offend him, Dave just nodded, and then shrugged.

"She's been wanting me to come for a while now. First day here." There. Casual enough to be accepted, regardless of John's opinions.

John smirked just a little, the expression a song playing across his face. He didn't have the same smirk as Dave usually did – where his expressions turned smug and boastfully snide, John's was softer, an inside joke that made him feel as if he were the only one to ever be seeing this face on him. It was a treat, even if he smiled as frequently, or more so, than he breathed.

"She made me come here too," he finally indulged, laughing along with Dave, both of them hesitatingly cracking up.

"The Lalonde's definitely planned this," Dave nodded, looking around the place tersely. He didn't realize the implications of that, at least not until John frowned and he caught the confused expression from the corner of his eye.

"Planned what?"

Dave blanched, giving him a wide eyes look and trying so very hard not to show his surprise. How was it even possible that John didn't notice the not-so-subtle coercion on the parts of the sisters? Could he have really just been that obtuse and thought this was a friendly invite? That thought led to more dangerous waters, but Dave didn't want to give rise to the notion that perhaps, John simply was not interested a single shred in the possibility of them being, well, _them_. It could very well be that John was only here since a friend had asked him time, and not because he really thought, not even for a second, that he belonged in a place such as this.

It seemed like avoidance was the best plan of attack for most of the things in Dave's live that he did not want to approach. He did what came naturally then and changed the topic.

"Is it just me, or does this place seriously smell like roses?" he asked suddenly, looking at the ceiling.

It took John a few seconds to get back in pace with the topic changes, but he jumped right back in, easily ignoring the previous awkwardness and nodding enthusiastically.

"Yep, I was thinking the same! I think it might have something to do with all the flowers that are… everywhere. Maybe. It's just a hunch, you know? It does smell like flowers an awful lot."

He couldn't help but grin at the circular route pattern of John's speech. If all else failed, he decided, making John say something dumb was the best course of action. It was absolutely guaranteed to lighten any ridiculous mood.

"So you're not a regular member here then, huh?" John asked, his eyes curious and gentle, prompting.

"No way, Egbert," he scoffed, "You think I'd hang around here on my own free will? This place is like the chump change that will just barely get you a bus ticket to chump city. Not my deal at all." Sure, he may have been laying his denial on thick, but then again, he wasn't losing much by hamming it up. It made John snicker, after all, so that reduced all demerit points to null.

"Ok, good. I was kind of a little confused when I saw you here, but then I also kind of started getting worried that you were serious about this place? I mean, it's ok here, but I don't think I want to come back again."

Nodding, Dave shoved his hands in his pockets as well, mirroring John's stance. He took a considerably more relaxed position, his shoulders slumped, spine loose, head tilted just slightly. His mother almost religiously scolded him as a child for that, told him to stand up straight as a kid, but it seemed, nearly 20 years later, that the bad habit was impossible to break.

"So, you're not digging it here either," he observed, more of a statement than question.

John had a strained expression on his face, as if he didn't want to admit to hating it here and yet also did not want to stay a single second longer. "Not really," was the happy medium he settled for. It was all the prompting Dave would ever need to hitch a ride out of there.

"Wanna just ditch? There's a ton of stuff around here we can go walk on. Grass, sidewalks, little pebble trails. You're into walks, right?"

Giving in to his smile like a tsunami taking over his features, John nodded amiably. "Sure. Walks are definitely my thing."

Returning the warm smile, Dave was on the verge of turning back to the hall he had come from, eager to get out of the place and start doing something of actual interest. Not that he found walks to be particularly exciting, but John liked them, and he was easy to talk to, so walking with him was a fine substitute to standing around here.

He was about to get going, but the sound of voices caught him off guard, familiar voices, ones that would probably scold him for wanting to leave too early and coo over him for meeting up with John here, of all places. Roxy's voice was bouncing off the walls towards them, a gracious warning for the storm that was about to come.

John seemed to pick up on this importance as well, his eyes round and imploring Dave for some form of executive decision. There was only the bathroom at the end of the hall, which he guessed they could hide in, but it was a single room with only one door and sooner or later of them waiting in there, someone would knock on its door and they would be trapped. Coming out of the bathroom with his friend in a very public, very outlandish setting was probably not good news for his reputation. Having Roxy hear of that would be worse than having her see them here, innocent in the hall.

There was one other option available to him, and from the limited time restraints and the urgency of the situation, it was the one Dave was going to take.

He wrenched open the door to a maintenance closet beside John, thanked whatever god would listen to him that it wasn't locked, and then promptly shoved John into the tiny compartment, squeezing himself in afterwards.

The door just barely closed, clicking into place and pressing into Dave's back as Roxy's voice grew louder and she turned the corner of the hall they were in.

The situation would be absolutely compromising if someone took noticed of them, the puny little closet hardly even large enough for both of them to squeeze in amongst a mop and some boxes of toilet cleaner. Dave was a little more pressed into John than he usually wanted to be with anyone, their chests nearly flush and knees bumping into each other. Looking down in the dim gloom, Dave saw that John's foot was planted in a bucket, there being no other place for his leg to go.

Impossibly, he found that as the funniest thing he'd seen in days, and choked back a mute laugh.

John gave him an incredulous glare, hardly even visible in the semi-lighting, but he stopped caring about Dave's slip up when Roxy's voice once more made itself known.

"I swear I saw him going to the bathroom," she muttered, the clack of her heels and another pair of softer shoes resounding loud in the narrow hall.

"Hm, maybe he's still in the main room?" After a few moments to trying to pinpoint the voice, Dave realized it was Jane, and he smirked. It wasn't aimed at anyone in particular, mostly just a sense of recognition and the pride that went along with it, but he ended up smiling right into John's face, who apparently thought he was about to start laughing again. His hand shot out in the tight space, muffling Dave's mouth for any future giggles. This random movement caught him off guard, enough to make him actually start chuckling again. Maybe it was the mix of adrenaline from doing something exciting and stupid for once, or maybe it was the awkward closeness and cramped conditions that gave Dave the nervous giggles, laughter muffled by John's palm. Really, he didn't much care for where his chuckles had come from, since he was enjoying himself quite a bit as it was. John, too, was finding it hard to keep a smirk off his lips as Dave battled off wave after wave of laughter, and so he clamped his hand in return, both of them smothering the other.

The voices outside the hall kept speaking, unaware of the silent giggle-fit going on right beside them."I saw him talking to Jake, maybe he took him for a tour." Dave's smile died at the mention of that and he made a face into John's palm. A private tour with that guy was not something he would be looking forward to.

"I guess so," Roxy said flatly. She sounded disappointed, and for a second Dave felt bad. He shared a look with John, hardly even a few inches away from his face. "And you know the other guy I wanted to introduce to you? Haven't seen him around yet. I guess neither of them really wanted to come." John's brows softened, his hold slackening on Dave, and for a second, he seemed so regretful, so guilty. The sight made Dave let go of him in return, eyes with no other choice than to bore into his curiously.

"Maybe," Jane said quietly and from the tone of her soft voice, Dave could imagine her trying to console a dejected Roxy, maybe with a hand soothingly placed on her arm. He decided that he liked Jane and that she was a good match for the sometimes flighty, younger Lalonde. "I should go out to keep serving refreshments. Are you coming? You can help me and keep an eye out for either of them if they show up."

Roxy seemed to relent easily and after some more grumbled words of dejection, the both of them retreated from the small hall, their click-clacking shoes following along after them.

And then, silence.

John sighed very quietly, his exhalation just a puff of left over air and then, a pair of lips clamped and pressed shut. His ever present smile wanted to spring back into life, and Dave could see it trying to in the light that wedged itself into the closet, attempting to peel up the corners of his mouth like recently applied, but fallen wallpaper, a mistake that could be corrected if caught in time. He recognized the importance of it, the sudden vulnerability that John had when it came to his own emotions. Dave had realized long ago that he needed protecting, but he hadn't known it was from himself, stemming from an internal threat.

He had to do something. He didn't know what to do or what would be the best for the situation, so he did what he did best and changed the subject.

Arms shooting out hastily, he dug his fingers into John's sides, making him jump and yelp just a little too loud from surprise. John caught the sound just in time, his mouth pressed closed, but he was squirming up onto his tip toes, attempting to extricate himself from the tickling fingers that pursued him.

Dave pressed on, not once giving him a chance to refute the actions with retaliations of his own, and so John broke into verbal tactics, speaking in a stern, but breathy whispers.

" _Dave, oh my god, pft, Dave Stop!_ "

He was giggling right along with him, the both of them finding this entire situation to be absolute hilarity. Dave, however, did not see a reason to stop. He did for a moment though, think of the possibility of someone hearing them giggling and making breathy, hurried sounds in a tiny little closet, but then again, he didn't quite care what anyone really thought here. He was, after all, with his friend, and he didn't quite care for what anyone else thought anymore when he was with John.

To hell with them. He was too busy, for almost the first time in several long years, having _fun._

It was all peaches and cream until John started trying to tickle in return, his knuckley fingers digging into his own sides with verve, excited and determined to get some hard earned revenge from Dave's attack.

Taking his punishment much less gracefully than John, he really did shriek, leaning away and against the hard panelled door behind him as he succumbed to the laughter. John, apparently slightly more conscious of the volume of their voices, clamped one hand again against Dave's mouth, sealing his lips closed himself. He had to press into him to get the right leverage, his weight transferring from his own two feet to Dave and pinning him to the door like that, till both of them were squished up tight next to it and reduced to a giggling, panting mess.

At least, Dave thought in the moments that it took John to release him, they were a giggling, panting mess with smiles on their faces, and not embarrassed, red in the face and quieted by the contact. He liked that being close to him didn't make John pale, but he didn't let him know that. He was good, he knew, at changing the subject.

Looking at him with a loose edged smile on his lips, mirroring the perfect example of one in front of him, Dave sighed. It wasn't the sigh of someone who was resigned to a lesser fate, or one who was facing a future with dread. It was a contented one, a glad expression, leagues away from his usual type of sigh.

"We should probably get out of here before someone needs a mop," he whispered, though keeping quiet was hardly even a necessity at this point – half the hall must have heard them by now after that particularly boisterous laughter fit.

"I guess so," John said lightly, leaning entirely off of him and working to get his foot out of the bucket. He had somehow managed to lodge it in there pretty firmly and Dave snorted again as he levered open the door. He couldn't help the sound from escaping really, since that was just comedy gold and he knew it. Stepping out into the hall, he freed up some room for John to maneuver and he followed him out, sans bucket, a few seconds later. The door was shut behind them, inconspicuous and unnoticed, as if no one had ever been there at all. That seemed rather pleasing to Dave, who smirked in the direction of the door before stepping away from it, a few paces in the direction of the main hall.

"What do you say we ditch? We can give an excuse to Roxy later – for all we know, she'll be happier knowing that we met up and did something we found fun instead of hanging around here and being bored out of our skulls." He didn't let on that Roxy would indeed be quite pleased that they met up, since that was probably the reason she had invited the both of them to attend on the same day.

Either way, Dave wasn't going to tell her that he skipped out on tea and cupcakes to go spend some quality time with John on an obviously unromantic walk through the grounds.

Nodding in agreement, John followed after him, routing the both of them back into the hall. "Sounds ok. Do you want to go to the corner store down in town and get some chocolate milk?" he asked idly.

Dave had no qualms with that logic, but getting out of here was prime objective number one. They steered out to the side exit, trampling along on the neatly trimmed lawn on their way towards John's parked car out in the front.

"Oh, but, Dave, before we go," John continued, popping open the passenger's door and letting Dave get in first, "You need to change first. There's no way I'm taking you out dressed like _that_. I do like the shoes though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, so we got to see a few cameo appearances in this chapter and I hope I did all the characters at least some justice! Jake is just an impossible guy to write dialogue for sometimes, but I did my best. Let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	6. Tuesday June 17, 1922

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)

Sometimes Dave thought that if there was some kind of vague afterlife, and if his brother had been taken up somewhere in a mystical, glowing heaven, floating and dancing and playing a goddamn harp as he gazed down upon him, then he might not like so much how his little brother was getting on without him. Admittedly, there really wasn't much to be proud of, looking from the outside in. Dave was only a bartender, he lived alone and in a messy, single bedroom apartment, and in his 22 years on this planet he hadn't racked more than a few embarrassed kisses in his history. He was afraid of himself on most days, of what could happen if he pushed things in a direction that he favoured on a whim, if he didn't pay attention to the concerned little voice in his head who warned him constantly, held him back. He was weak, he knew, and he didn't even fight for his brother and he had never fought for his country. He didn't even fight for the things that were important to him, the small things that matter not at all to anyone but him.

He wasn't sure if he was even capable of that, or if he was perhaps destined to an aimless, insubstantial lifestyle, one that depended on him floating from situation to situation without resistance, a life where he was so clearly put to the whim of the wind, carried like a slew of crisp leaves in autumn.

That made him afraid, he supposed. Afraid for his future. Afraid for his life and where, in his infinite world of possibilities, he might be led if he did not lead himself on his own accord.

He had always been afraid, unhappy even, but he was so spectacularly good at changing the subject, even in his own mind.

Which, maybe, was why he liked John so much. John never pressed issues with him, he let him forgo the finer details and change the topic however many times he wished. He was quick on his feet with following, chasing after wit like a man trying to catch the wind with a butterfly net, and he was effortless when it came to a smile or a joke.

He made Dave forgetful.

Dave forgot lots of things when he was with him. He forgot how to be grouchy and how to do long division, and sometimes, he forgot why he was so unhappy in the first place. A lot of the time, he made him forget that his troubles lingered in his future, that he was an uncertain and confused man, and that sometimes, he was afraid of his own shadow or the things that went bump in the night. He made him forget little things like the fact that that brown shoes did not match with black pants, or how to mix a perfect cocktail, with olive garnish, without mucking the entire thing up.

A lot of the time though, he forgot about more important things.

Like how at night he could sometimes stay up so late, too late, wrapped in blankets and pressing summer heat, and think, on and on, endlessly, about his laugh or how his expressive eyes might crinkle into a giddy smile if he'd be granted a surprise gift, a nice pair of supple leather gloves that Dave had seen in a storefront on Monday and hadn't been able to stop thinking of since, wondering that if he could just get them to replace John's beat up pair of flying gloves, then maybe things would make some sense in his mind. He always regretted these nights, in the morning at least, tired and with red rimmed eyes, but in the evenings when he wanted nothing better than to sink into bed and be done with the day, John would pop back into the speakeasy for a drink, making everything, somehow, seem a little more bearable.

Sometimes though, the forgetfulness John inflicted on him made him forget much more important things than getting his eight hours of sleep.

Sometimes, he found himself forgetting about Mayor.

It was awful and it only happened once, at first, when John invited him out for lunch and Dave had left his shift the instant he could, whisked away in the spinning wheels of John's car. He only realized that he hadn't considered inviting Mayor when they were paying for the check, and by then it was far too late to do anything but feel remorse. Upon returning to the bar, he heard from Rose that Mayor had left about five minutes after he did, hobbling out the door with only a terse wave to her.

It shouldn't have, but it broke his heart to no end, ripping it again and again with nagging guilt when he imagined Mayor calmly getting up, paying for his drink in spare change, and then walking out into the midday sun, entirely alone.

The next day that he saw him, Dave pleaded forgiveness and promised he'd have never done that intentionally, saying that sometimes, he just got carried away with John and that he really, never, honestly, would ever try to ignore him.

Curiously, Mayor only smiled at this, his scruffy and greying head of hair bent into a nod.

It happened, again and again after, despite Dave feeling progressively worse about it each time. Even after his profuse apologies, his begging and pleading for forgiveness, it seemed that Mayor didn't find any fault in his actions, only nodding again like he had the first time, hardly even bothered. It began to feel as if Mayor was only accepting his apology because it meant so much to Dave that he gave it.

Eventually, he forgot about trying to apologize all together.

  


Even if things weren't going as normal as usual with Mayor, and even if he felt pretty badly about that, the whole friendship deal with John was actually getting great. They saw each other almost more outside of the bar than they did in it anymore, and that was perfectly ok with Dave. He was finding that getting out of work environment every once in a while, or even all the time, was rather pleasant and fun to do, especially when it was with John. Most of the time, he brought Mayor with him, but he seemed quieter, less enthused when Dave was with John than when it was the two of them alone. He made a mental note to spend some time with Mayor, just the two of them. No more of this being a terrible best friend, they were going to go have fun and they were going to do ridiculous friend things all alone and it was going to be great.

…. and then John came to the bar that night, and he might have forgotten of his unspoken plans about taking Mayor out for a few drinks.

In his defence, John was simply too much fun to converse with and he was just as animated as Mayor, but there was a certain way he clicked with Dave that felt different than it did with anyone else. Making conversation with him just seemed a lot easier. 

They talked long into the evening, Mayor staying on the sidelines of the conversation, occasionally piping in with a gestured comment or two, but other than that, it was just the two of them. John left when he had the excuse of having to get some sleep for work the next day, and as he left, Dave realized it was just the two of them in the bar again, just him and Mayor, just like it had used to be.

He was in the process of replacing some of the glasses on the shelf, keeping the lines of cylindrical glass even and straight, when a glimmer of something caught his eye on the counter top. Mayor was looking at it was well, but Dave didn't pay him much attention as he snatched up the pair of goggles. They were definitely John's, probably left at his spot on the counter, forgotten as he stood up to leave.

They were comforting to hold in some way, all the slow burning longing that Dave had for a pair of his own making his chest glow with warmth as he looked at the bulky metal eyepieces, the thick glass parts that were bent into a curve to fit the head better. The brassy metal warmed to his touch after a few moments, hardly even cold in the first place.

Dave grinned as he looked the pair in his hands, the form of them familiar and native to his palm. Inspecting the side, on the leather straps that went around the wearer's head, he saw the initials JE carved into the leather in loose, loopy hand writing. He found himself smiling fondly down at the carvings, absently thinking to himself as he stared.

It wasn't until Mayor broke into a hacking coughing fit that Dave blinked up at him. The poor guy had been getting sick for the better part of the week, and Dave attributed it to the recent rainy weather. That, and the fact that Mayor always seemed to wear the same thin jacket, regardless of weather, and he'd never seen him eat anything at the bar before, even when he stayed there long into the night, spending nearly all his afternoon and night with nothing to eat. Only a glass of scotch, sometimes three, but nothing more. Dave set the goggles down, giving him an interested look.

Mayor, bent nearly double on his stool and facing away from the bar counter, took a few seconds of heavy breathing before he recovered enough to look up at Dave. He patted at his chest a few times, more out of signing reason than to clear his chest. Dave got the implications – the cold was in his lungs. He gave a sympathetic look.

"You're lookin' pretty awful," he observed flatly. "Want me to get you a tylenol? We got some in the back." Before Mayor even had a chance to respond, because Dave knew the stubborn bastard was probably going to refuse, Dave was ducking into the back staff room. His coat was slung up there, along with several bits and pieces of the Lalonde girl's personal belongings. There was an alarm clock, swiped from someone's bedroom and relocated now to be used as a regular time piece. Beside the clock, on the rickety, tall table that took up much of the small room, was a plastic baggie of little things that came in handy at a bar: a few bandaids, a slew of napkins that should have been in the store room, and there, a small brown bottle of tylenol. Dave shook two into his palm and then navigated out to the main counter again.

Mayor was still there, massaging at his brow with his fingertips, and he glanced briefly up at Dave as he reentered. It wasn't until now that Dave realized just how pale the man was. His usually ruddy face was diminished to a flat, pasty colour, sickly green and shinny with sweat. Dave frowned and passed the pills over before he got a tumbler of water for him.

"You really do look like shit," he said in a quiet voice. "You shouldn't be out like this – you oughta get home and get some soup or something. Sleep under the covers, wear a cold compress on your head, I don't know. You look really bad, damn."

Mayor just waved him off, taking the water and the pills and swallowing them down, his adam's apple bobbing as he did. His hand shook, Dave noticed, as he set the glass back down, rattling it momentarily before it made contact with the smooth top.

A deep look of concern overtook Dave's face, because he really was not sure when Mayor had gotten _this_ bad. He had been sneezing and coughing every once in a while, enough to actually be noticed, but other than that…

Other than that, Dave had been too busy with John to notice just how sick he really was.

Pursing his lips flat in contemplation, he decided that Mayor was not going to be able to stay here a minute longer and he wouldn't dare trying to send him home on his lonesome.

"Come on, get your jacket," he instructed, stepping out from behind the counter to help Mayor attend to lifting his plaid jacket from the back of his chair. "I'm takin' you home."

He frowned as a thought struck him, partially through with helping Mayor ease into his worn and musty jacket. Dave had not a single clue where Mayor's home was. He had known this man for over 2 years now, and not once had they gone to one anothers home, nor had the question of where he lived even come up.

For a second, before he returned to the pressing topic at hand, Dave wondered how many times he had been to John's home by now, or how many times he had come over to his own. He didn't want to think of how those numbers contrasted drastically with the times he had seen Mayor outside of work.

"Mayor, buddy," Dave said with renewed purpose. "Where do you live? Around west end?"

He had been expecting, at best, a nod of agreement, or at worst a several minute long game of charades in an attempt to find out where his friend lived.

Instead, Mayor shook his head slowly, looking at Dave like he had just broken a solemn rule and was a guilty 6 year old.

"No?" Dave asked again, beginning to grow ever more concerned, "Mayor, man, where do you live?"

He shrugged meekly and looked away with his gaze settled on the floor.

That was nearly enough to break Dave's heart. He didn't want to accept this till it was confirmed though, whatever tiny sliver and shred of disbelief lodged in him holding fast to hope. His own voice sounded frail and tremulous, pained. "Do you have a house?"

He didn't want to think about any of this. He did not want to think about how his oldest, best friend just shook his head to that question, and he did definitely not want to think about all those times in the middle of winter when Mayor stayed inside longer into the night than usual, claiming he did not want to walk home in the cold. In reality, he had not wanted to spend the entire night out in the cold.

And Dave had never thought anything of it.

He wanted to have a moment, to hate himself for not knowing, not even thinking to ask. For not caring. But this wasn't about him, he reminded himself. That kind of thinking was what got him into this trouble in the first place. This was about Mayor and he'd damn well think about him when he needed it.

Dodging back into the staff room, he slung his coat on over his shoulders, briskly striding out to meet the man once more. "Come on," he said, firmly and leaving no room for Mayor to slip out of his decision, "You're sleeping at my place. It's not far."

As expected, Mayor shook his head adamantly, arms waving in refusal. This sent him into another short coughing spree, to which Dave held onto his back, trying to keep him upright. Mayor quite obviously did not want to go, but there was also no doubt in his mind that any more time spent out in the elements would absolutely ruin him.

That was one thing that he definitely did not want to think about.

Steering the limping man out to the side walk and out to his apartment, Dave could feel his body tremble under his touch. The walk was short, but they took it slow, careful not to urge him too far, too fast. The last thing Dave wanted was the poor sod passing out and then having to carry him up the fire escape that lead to his tiny little apartment.

Dave's home was, for lack of a better term, a total dump. The cleanliness he had to keep in his job at the speakeasy or in his own personal dress was entirely at odds to the wanton mess that was his home. The first time John had been here, he actually had the gall to gape at his messy coffee table, covered in papers and junk mail and flyers and little bowls of half eaten, dry cereal. He had been thoroughly displeased at how unwiped his counter tops were, and that there were more coffee spill rings on it than actual mugs in his home.

Dave didn't care. It was home, it was functional (mostly), and the rent was cheap. His furniture was bought second hand, the patterns uneven and mismatched, but John actually had had a nice thing to say about that, commenting that the style was "very Dave," and "a little weird." Dave hadn't been sure what to think of that, but he had never found the need to purchase new couches or armchairs, rather liking the clash of paisley floral and hounds tooth.

Keying open his door quickly and ushering Mayor through the threshold, Dave tried to form a plan in his mind. It seemed that getting him in bed was the first and prime objective, and since Dave only had his own and no guest room, it seemed as if he'd be spending the next foreseeable future on his own couch. That hardly mattered in his decision making though, his mindset entirely focused upon Mayor, and his oft repeated, increasingly brutal coughing fits.

He got the feverish man settled quickly enough, tucking him in with several thick blankets, despite the warmth of the room, windows open and humid air spilling in from the streets. His apartment always got pretty cold as the night progressed, and so he hoped that roasting Mayor now would be worth it at 4am when his sheets had turned cold. Once Mayor was settled, Dave took some time to make sure he was comfortable, and that he had some water and tissues on the bedside table, and then got to fixing him some soup. He really wasn't the greatest at it, and honestly, he felt bad when he served it an hour later, knowing how far he had strayed from the recipe's description.

Mayor didn't seem to want to eat it anyways, and when Dave checked his forehead, he was most definitely dealing with a fever. Dave didn't know much about fevers, but he did what he could, getting a cold, wet dishrag and letting it cool at Mayor's forehead. He sat by his side, even as the tired man drifted off into a light sleep.

He stayed like that for far too long, and the next thing he was aware of, he was waking to the distinct pain in one's neck that only comes from hours spent sleeping crooked in a stiff chair.

 

 

Dave called in to R&R, told them he couldn't make it. He didn't give them a day by which he'd be available again, but when he told them it was concerning Mayor, and the state that he was in, no further questions were asked. He figured they could hear the strain in his voice.

Talking to the Mayor seemed the best way to pass the time, the long hours between his fitful sleep that could no longer be filled with dozing off. Dave talked endlessly, about anything and nothing, about the sky outside and the birds sitting on the window sill, and how impressive Mayor's beard was. He talked forever it seemed, even when Mayor was sleeping, and sometimes it felt like old times, in the times before John and before he cared too much about planes and social parties and nights out on the town. It was normal, for a short period of time, and it was awful.

Because by now a few days had passed, and Mayor was not getting much better at all.

"I made you some more soup," Dave said in a soft undertone, carefully toting his platter of soup and water and two pills of cold medicine to the bedside table for the third time that day. It was nearly dusk, the light from the window softening and dimming to a dismal purple grey, sifting in through the curtains like food colouring dripped in water Mayor was still asleep, not stirred from his slumber as Dave spoke, which was fine by him. The man needed all the sleep he could get. Dave took up his usual seat by his side, one leg crossed over the other in what one might have judged to be a casual, relaxed pose.

If one looked closer, they'd see the bags under his eyes, heavy and cumbersome and drooping, and they might be able to see his hands, wringing tight, white knuckled on the platter before he set it down.

"It's not the best," he excused to no one, or at least no one that was conscious. "But I think I'm finally getting a feel for how this is supposed to work. Lemme tell you, soup mixing is a whole lot harder than drink mixing. Whole new ball game. You used to like seeing the ball games, didn't you? I remember once you told me you went there. Man, were you excited about that. It was your first game, huh? Jeez, wish I could'a been there to see it. You wave your arms around a lot when you get riled up for something, you know? Waving them all over the place, this way then that, you could probably take someone's eye out llke that. Doubt you'd manage that though. Care too much about other people for your own good."

He sniffed, once, and took a moment to keep going.

"You care a whole lot too much. I don't think I really realized that at first, you know? You were just this pal I had, you kept me company during my shift. But, holy smokes, do you _care_. You were always lookin' out for me too, weren't you? You were the one who let John stay with us in the beginning – to be honest I think he liked you more than he did me for a long time." Dave took a pause, long enough to sigh to himself, eyes no longer focused on Mayor's face, but instead the window outside. The fading light oozed through the curtains, thick and suffocating, and Dave closed his eyes before continuing.

"Yeah, you're a good guy. One of the best, you know? Better than John, too, cause I never _once_ wanted to kill you. You know I used to want to kill John a lot? Jesus, I wanted that man quartered and drawn, roasted like a pig and served on a platter with an apple in his huge mouth. Nah, he's not that bad. You kept him around, and so I got to know him better. Mayor, I think I owe you a lot. You got me a great friendship, you yourself are just, psh, you know, best friend. You're a stubborn brat sometimes too though. Not gonna lie – you are one stubborn man. You're so stubborn and self sufficient that for two goddamn _years_ you never once thought to tell me that, maybe, just maybe, you needed some help. I would'a helped you earlier, you know. I'd have loved to."

The birds outside played a slow, mournful melody, and the backs of Dave's knuckles grazed idly over Mayor's stubbly cheek, just once. For a moment, the world was stilled, quieted and silenced by an overwhelming realization that maybe, Dave's help just wasn't going to be enough. The soup beside him curled out smoke as it waited to be eaten, a miniature factory pumping out its own exhaust fumes.

"You always helped me," he whispered, voice broken and cracked and not, _not_ , on the verge of tears. "So help me now. I can't do this for you. I can't. And I can't lose you so there's only one option, man, only one, and you had better get better fast because if you don't – "

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't think he could have, even if he wanted to.

Mayor, the peaceful and slumbering form of him, the husk of his former person, slept on endlessly as the man beside him gave way to silent tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, after reading through the rest of what I've written up, I changed the ending to chapter 13, instead of 12. Sorry, but you're going to have to stick it out for just a little longer before we get through this plot!


	7. Monday June 23, 1922

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, it's time for another mindless, friendly talk with author. I just want to say that I am really enjoying working on a chaptered fic (this is honestly the first time I've ever even attempted something this ambitious, though it certainly won't be the last), and it really wouldn't be the same without you guys along the way dropping feedback! I don't reply to many of my comments because I'm an awkward and flustered mess most of the time, but I really do enjoy all your comments, even if it's someone yelling at me for the events going on in the plot (of which I can probably predict will be coming up again sooner than later). Anyways, all I wanted to say was that I really love the community of fic readers here, and your contributions mean so much to me <3 And now without any more stalling, here is chapter 7.

It had been six days. 

Nearly a week of skipping work, nearly a week of not talking to anyone asides from telling them he'd be staying home. Nearly a week of not seeing John, which was actually the longest either of them had gone without talking since meeting. 

It had been six days, and Mayor was still not much better. He lay in Dave's narrow bed, sleeping through most of the days and coughing, wheezing his hacking cough out during the sleepless nights. The squat window perched near the head of bed did little to keep the room in comfortable coolness, and during the heat of the day a pervasive, sticky warmth oozed into the room, which did nothing for the fever, or Dave's sanity. He was having a tough enough time juggling soup to help with the fever as opposed to light sandwiches of toast and jam for the sake of Mayor's temperature comfort, switching them up with such blisteringly fast dexterity that he was having issues staying awake most of the time.

It was actually mind blowing to him just how much effort it took to keep a sick, mute friend at ease. He had a doctor visit a few days into the week, who had only prescribed a heavier dosage of medicine and lots of bed rest, which had been less than helpful, to say the least. But he had no money for anything more extravagant, definitely no cash on hand for a stay in the hospital, and as it stood, this was the best he could do. The only comfort he had was that Mayor wasn't getting exponentially  _ worse.  _ Then again, he did not exactly start off as perfectly fine either. 

It had been six days, and Dave was dozing off on the lumpy couch of his living room at 2pm. He slept lightly, constantly on guard for the sound of a tinkling bell he had given Mayor, a tiny little brass thing that alerted him, and rather easily as well, if he needed anything. Dave had always been something of a light sleeper, but he was especially attuned to the situation, entirely devoted to giving Mayor his all if the opportunity arose, which it often did.

What woke him though, was not the toll of a bell, but rather a distantly familiar sound. His door bell was definitely not something he had been used to hearing lately, or ever.

Groggy and disheveled, with his hair in a royal mess and his shirt passing the 2 days mark by now, wrinkled by sleep, Dave stumbled to the front door. He was hardly in a mindset to consider who it might be, but in retrospect, he should have known exactly who it was that greeted him.

"Hey, Dave," the familiar voice greeted with a cautious air once the door was opened. John was holding his coat over one arm, as if he had taken it off half way through walking here. Had he walked? He had a car. It was too hot to walk outside anywhere. Dave's mind was stuck on that detail, stupidly, until he realized John was still talking to him, peering at him with concern. "You don't look so good. Are you getting sick too?"

"What. No," Dave said, scowling at the ridiculous question. "I'm fine, what are you doing here?"

Taken a little aback, John frowned and looked him over one more time before peeking into the apartment past him. "I was worried. Can I come in?"

 

For future reference, Dave told himself, never let someone come in if it could be at all avoided. One house guest is by far more than enough.

John fussed over him, felt his forehead and made him give John a rundown of if he was coughing a lot, if he had a sore throat, if he thought he was getting sick. Truth be told, Dave did actually have a slightly running nose, but it was beyond minor and John didn't ask, so he didn't tell him.

Mayor was still sleeping soundly, snuffling quietly when Dave poked his head in and gave him a careful once over. John drifted along after Dave as he went through the apartment, following with light steps, hardly even audible as he padded over the carpeted floor. The both of the retreating to let the invalid rest in peace, and, 10 minutes later, they were leaning in silence against Dave's kitchen counters, mugs in hand. Dave had a glass of warm milk, which had been so forcibly endorsed by John, who proclaimed that they were simply the very best thing for a run down soul, or whatever the hell it was that Dave needed saving from. He didn't feel run down in the slightest. He was fine, but Mayor needed his attention. He was just wasting time now, standing here with John.

"You're worrying me, Dave," he entreated quietly, his eyes lowered to his mug which was held close to his lips. John took a moment to blow over the steam that rolled up from his tea, and then guided his eyes over to Dave, slow, like someone tentative in motion so as to not frighten or scare away a bird. Dave found himself hating him for it. "I haven't seen you in so long. And – and you really need to answer your phone! I called you like four times yesterday."

"About that," Dave rose in, his voice gravely and just a little hoarse from speaking all day to Mayor, "Could you stop already? The ringer keeps waking Mayor up and he needs –"

John sighed, and then forcibly cut him off. "I know he needs sleep. But so do  _ you _ . Are you even taking care of yourself? I know you think that Mayor is important – and he  _ is _ , I know, but you need to make sure you're ok before you can help someone else." 

"I told you, John. I'm fine."

"There's more to being fine than just getting enough to eat and a few hours of sleep," John murmured, with his eyes stayed sidelong, cast away from Dave's. They stayed there, sitting to gaze on the far counter top, the dirtied plates and bowls netting his eyes and tangling them there. Dave wished he would look at him already, just so he could convey how frustrated he was.

"What exactly do you want me to do?" he spat. "Go out and enjoy a nice steak dinner on my own when he's laying here sicker than a dog?" It was all he could find himself saying, but he felt like there was more spite to spit out, more stale thoughts and harsh words to exchange. There was so much to say, so many things to yell at John, so many ways to say how he was wrong. Dave was afraid though, of what he might give rise to if he let his thoughts reign for themselves.

John stayed meek, blessedly able to avoid heating the conversation to a stalemate with his head ducked down an inch or so. "I just mean, when was the last time you did something for your own benefit? I know he needs a lot of attention, and you're doing everything you can, and that is fantastic, it really is. But, have you even gotten out of the house all this time? No one's seen you in so long, you're isolating yourself and you don't need to. This is what we're here for, Dave. Your friends are supposed to help you. So let us."

"Ok," he said dryly. "Thanks for your help. Doin' a great spiffy job."

"Dave... let me get your mind off all of this, just for an evening. We can go someplace and have dinner and Mayor will still be here when we come back, probably still sound asleep. Come on, you need a break." His eyes were pleading just as much as his voice was, and for a second, Dave found himself wanting to give in, to go with him and forget the world for a while with John. He knew it would be a well needed rest. He also knew he couldn't.

"No. I'm not leaving, I have food here."

"You can leave a note! So he can read it when he –  _ if he _ – wakes up. And he'll definitely understand. He wants you to be happy just as much as anything else in the word, Dave, you know he does." 

He was quiet for a moment, trying to weigh out just how awful of a person he would be if he went along with the plan. Some time to regroup sounded kind of nice, and though he didn't like the idea of leaving Mayor along for any length of time, maybe the note would suffice?

He hated himself, but John was persuasive and it was sometimes impossible to ever say no to him when he looked up at Dave from behind his mug, all huge puppy eyes and hopefulness.

"Fine. But no longer than two hours, alright? I need a minute to write the note."

 

In the end, Dave's lingering resistance to leave Mayor's sleeping side resulted in him having to be towed away by John, one hand clamped onto his upper arm to drag him away and the other busied with grabbing his jacket and wallet and shoving them at him till they were out the door.

John had driven himself to his home and so, despite the muggy and rainy atmosphere on the sidewalks, the drive to whatever place John had decided upon was dry. Dave found that he truly did not like driving in cars when the weather out was damp and wet. The windows fogged up and his feet got cold no matter how much he stamped them on the floor, and the sound of rain water spraying off of the hind tires was unsettling, distracting even.

John parked in front of an old eatery on the other side of town, and the sign out front looked vaguely familiar. It was wooden, with a carved name and an inset of brass to form the title and the simple, stamp-like drawing of the logo beside it. The Horse and Hearse was a bar, not unlike R&R's on the surface and superficial level, but it lacked the same basic appeal, the warm lights and the gentle murmuring of familiar conversation in the background. There was no recognized bar tender to be seen as Dave followed John through the large swinging doors, and there certainly weren't any familiar raggedy men hunched over at the bar, second stool from the far left.

The walls were dark washed wood, stained and sticky to the eye, their long streaks of wooden swirls a mourning wail on an open field. Unlike Dave's bar, there was a dance floor, with music forcing its way throughout the room, a phonograph wedged into the corner of the room. A few dismal couples were dancing, trying to keep the spirit of the rainy day at bay for their fun. It seemed to be working for them, but Dave didn't feel like watching. John ordered two tall glasses of chocolate milk, ignoring the confused stare he received from the bartender at the request. Dave supposed he must have asked for chocolate milk from a dozen other bars before chancing across Dave's own, which probably explained why he was so nonchalant about the act. Dave still thought of themselves as out of place as they took their kiddie drinks to a booth a little ways off, for privacy, apparently.

He had no intention of initiating a conversation as he sat across from John, who was eyeing him with interest. Instead, he drank at his chocolate milk, forcing himself to get the first few swallows down. He liked the taste of it, he always had, but he was really not feeling like enjoying anything right about now. Enjoying something meant having something good that Mayor couldn't. And that was just wrong.

"Dave."

He blinked and looked up from the small bubbles that floated at the top of his drink. "Hm?"

"I asked you how you were feeling." John's brows were creased slightly, sharp eyes intent on Dave's.

Dave's hand curled around his drink for a moment, and then he sighed. "Doin' fine. After this drink we're heading back, yeah?"

"Sure, Dave. But you have to actually drink the whole thing." John had the kind of attentiveness to his mannerisms that reminded Dave of a school teacher, cautious and gentle, and yet firm so as to get the end result that he ultimately desired. It left him feeling malformed and squished, a lumpy piece of clay twisted out of shape and made to resemble a vase when in reality, he was a just a lump of unmolded clay and that was the way he desired to stay. His hand curled on over the glass again, tightly and just for a second, and then he let go as holding onto it was some great feat that he could no longer preform.

The phonograph skipped on its track just for a moment, leaving the room in jarring silence that was killed as quickly as it was spawned into existence.

In the tenseness of the situation, Dave had taken to thinking inside the comfort of his mind, looking off vacantly at the small food menu drawn in chalk behind the bar. The hand writing was ornately stylized, it was angular and uncomfortable to look at, but in it there was a strange sort of beauty to it, as if the viewer was drawn in by the sheer awfulness of it. In the same was one was morbidly drawn to staring at a fatal accident on a street, Dave stared at the menu, lost in the realm of his own mind.

He had only drunken about one quarter of his milk, the small bubbles on the top of it immobile now and sticking to the sides of the glass and slowly, dependably, popping out of existence. John had just finished tipping the last of his drink back, wiping at his mouth with the side of his hand as Dave turned to watch him.

"Do you dance?" John asked suddenly, his attention on the two couples on the dance floor. There was a faster song playing now, their feet tapping and jiving steadily to the beat. "I feel like you've said something about that before, but you were pretty vague about it."

"Not anymore."

"Why?"

He shrugged, looking at his nearly full glass, and then John's empty one. "No one to dance with that I didn't hate."

John blinked as his friend pushed his drink across the table to join his own chocolate stained glass. It made a smooth noise as it slid, and then a soft clink when it hit the other glass. John's fingertips made contact with his gift.

"Can we go?"

 

John was terse as he drove them back to Dave's apartment. His brow was hard edged and his turns around the street corners more abrupt than he needed to, and Dave would have felt bad, actually, for ruining his evening, but he was far too concerned with the idea of Mayor at home, waking up, sick and needing something, anything, and ringing his little bell on and on, not seeing the note, shit what if he didn't see the note? Dave had put it on his blanket, wedged in next to the quilted patterned squares, and the paper was fairly large and yellow and he  _ should _ have seen it, but what if he didn't? What if he tried to get up, and fell, what if, what if, what if? 

He had worked himself up into a quiet, internalized frenzy by the time they made the trip back home, and by then, the rain had picked up from just a dismal misting and into a thick, constant curtain of sogginess. John pulled up alongside the curb to his building, turned off the engine, and then gave Dave a stern look.

He had rarely ever been on the receiving end of a look like this, but when he had been, it was far from pleasant. Every single bone in his body was aching to dash up his stairs and get inside, but he was held captive by the intensity of John's gaze.

"What?" he finally spat, growing frustrated by this silent staring contest.

John blinked, his eyes turned down to the steering wheel, and he shook his head. His fingers were taught on the wheel, but then again, Dave's were likewise straining on the door handle. "Nothing. You go check on Mayor. Call me later, if you want."

Hesitant now to leave, Dave nodded, once, and then after a few more strange seconds of quiet he jerked open the door and jogged up the fire escape entrance, dodging bullets of rainwater as he went. In the time it took him to reach the top step, to key open his door and shoulder it open, John's car was gone, receding in a mist of kicked up water down the road. Streetlights saluted him goodbye, one by one blinking on into existence as he passed.

Dave didn't stay to watch. His focus was now and entirely on Mayor, and as he pushed open the door to his own room and flicked on a dim lamp by the headboard, his shoulders sagged with relief and a deep sigh escaped him. The blanket that rested over Mayor, a turf of protectiveness that covered a field of rich top soil, was not even stirred a fraction from how he had left it, the lines of the material still smooth and even and just as he had made it. The note too, was directly in front of Mayor's face, resting on his chest and peaceful as a tomb.

Nearly falling into the folding chair beside his bed, Dave wondered what on earth he had even been worrying about.

The glass of water Dave had set out for him on the bedside table was full, with a few tiny bubbles of air sticking to the sides of the glass, stale. It had been sitting for far too long, and Dave reached out for it, about to take it to the sink to dump and then refill, when his eyes caught on something else on the little night table.

John's flying goggles still lay there, left and forgotten so very long ago when he had first brought Mayor home. They had been stuck inside the pocket of his coat when he brought him home, and somehow, they had found their way to the little table there, covered in wads of tissues, both used and unused, and a thin magazine that Dave was working his endless way through.

Honestly, he had forgotten all about them.

Setting the drink down again, he let out a heavy breath and picked up the limp brass and leather contraption. The initials were there, carved into the sides, as always, and when Dave looked through the thick lenses, the world appeared darker and yellow tinged, as if peering through an empty bottle of beer after knocking a few too many back.

With the goggles resting on his lap, and his eyes resting on the Mayor's still body, a wave of regretfullness washed over him. John hadn't deserved the way he treated him today, or for the past week at all. The guy was just trying to _help_.

"I'm a pretty bad friend, huh?" he asked in a small voice, looking over at Mayor.

Of course, he didn't get a response. Tilting his head in acknowledgement of that fact, he gave a short look to the clock on the wall. It was almost an hour past the time that Mayor usually was awake for the night, his sleep only being able to last for so long before he had to face the living world again. It was strange of him to break schedule so abruptly, but he knew the guy could do with all the sleep he could get. Even so, he needed to eat something, even if he was busy getting his beauty sleep.

"How's some soup sound? I know, soup is pretty great after eating it a week straight, don't even remind me. That's all I've been eating too, you know? Nonstop soup. Like Saint Nick dropped off early this year and gave me just what I wished for. Guy's a saint for sure, I'll tell you that. Thanks, Mr. Claus, you sure are everything I could have ever hoped to achieve." He was rambling, muttering under his breath with only the spite of himself to fuel his words, and he knew he should probably stop but as he drifted off towards the kitchen to make something for the both of them to eat, he just could not bother himself to care.

"Hey, check this out," he said to no one but himself, swinging his fridge open, "Got some soup from yesterday. Wouldn't you know it. See, this is what happens when you have soup every damn day – you have gallons of it to spare. Just gonna heat this up.... Urgh, need to get this stove top clean. Look at this, there's spilled souped from like a week ago. This is what happens when I try to cook something for extended periods of time. Mess. Seriously, now that I think about it, I used to eat out almost every day. Jeez, weird things, huh?"

Trailing off with nothing else really to say and fatigue making his jaw sluggish in its movements, Dave only yawned. The sound of his wooden spoon grating against the pot's bottom filled the room. He stayed like that for probably too long, till the soup was piping hot and he had hardly even realized it was bubbling away. Snapping the dial on his stove to turn off the heat, he prepared two bowls.

"Wakey, wakey Mayor Man, got you some divine soup right here. This is god's message to you that getting on the mend is not only a strong possibility, but a god damn prophesy. Can't let the big man down, can you? Look, here, this soup is..."

He gave up on advertising for the soup, somewhat dejected as he set the bowls down on the night table and Mayor didn't even stir to his loud greetings. The edges of his lip twitched, not in amusement or irritation, but the suppression of it, the heavy handed, pressed thumb and white knuckled styled curtailment of negative emotions. Mayor, across from him, did not move a muscle.

"I know you're tired," he sighed, hoping that a change of tact might rouse him, "But can ya just try to eat? Come on, open those peepers. You can do it." Dave reached out, hand clasped on his shoulder, and shook gently.

"Mayor. Come on."

For a split second, his heart jumped in his chest, a sliver of worry sprouting into existence, but he swallowed it down, and calmly shook his shoulder again, this time more forcibly.

"'Said wake up." His frame moved slightly at the push, but once Dave removed his force, he eased back into the original position, as if he had never been moved at all.

This time, the heart in his throat did not dislodge itself and he leaned up too fast, two fingers pressed to his grizzled, stubbly neck.

Please.

There was a pulse here somewhere – there, wait – no.

_Please._

 

 

 

_please_

 

 

 

 

 

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, fallen back into his chair with hands dropped into his lap. There weren't tears, not hysterics, and there certainly wasn't any quiet begging and pleading that no,  _ no, this wasn't right, this could not be right, how was this right?  _ Instead he just sat, numb and in a state of nonacceptance, jaw hanging slack. 

It took him too long to stop staring at Mayor – at the corpse – and by the time he did, the soup by his side was cold. His mouth was dry and his stomach still as empty as it had been when he got home, but the thought of eating sent him into a fit of nausea which was only quelled when he dumped the soup down the sink, and then sat, vacant minded and brain fogged, at his kitchen table. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now.

Was there anything he should be doing right now? It didn't seem so. His best friend was dead, in his own bed. This was the end of the story, obviously, and now he was past the last words written on parchment, scribbled in haste.

He was an afterword, a small reminder of a blurb at the end, plopped in there to remind the reader that maybe, the story had to go on for some.

That didn't mean anything interesting happened after the final words were set into print. Nothing ever happened after. Everyone knew that. Even Dave, who was just happening to be stuck, rolled tight into that position.

What now?

Nothing.

This was the end of the story. All roads lead to Rome, and all bus riders get off at this stop. Tip the waiter. Please take a number, pull on dispenser with both hands. Ring bell for service.

Have a nice day.

 


	8. Thursday June 26 & Tuesday July 1, 1922

Dave had a forming theory that the rain did not want to stop.

That was, considering that rain wasn't a sentient force, and making allowances for such flaws, the rain still seemed to want to make things as miserable as possible for the dismal city that Dave had been unfortunate enough to find himself living in. And it did. It rained and rained and rained, endlessly, as if a dam had broke in heaven, or a squad of angels were weeping on shift work for some great and terrible violation occurring to them in heaven, or whatever it was that angels could have reason to cry about. It rained at night when Dave was sleeping, or rather attempting to, and it rained in the morning when he made his coffee to keep his drained body awake and it rained in the afternoon, and it rained when Roxy called that evening to tell him that he didn't need to come into work right now, and then it rained some more, on and on, till the funeral three days later.

It rained during the funeral. How cliche. Dave thought the rain would have more sense than to prolong its stay for three days, live through a mourning period, live up to and past a funeral service. He could have laughed, barked out a harsh and bitter breath at it, and he did, standing in the rain before the service had started.

Five people attended his funeral. Dave, Rose, Roxy, John, and Jade. There were tears in some of their eyes, there was weeping and blown noses and apologies for being so loud. There was the passing of tissues, the patting of posture impractical backs. People said they were so, so sorry even though it was not their fault, and people said so many other things, and there were birds in the sky, circling, even though it was raining.

Ornate umbrellas were opened, undecorated caskets were lowered.

The grass drank in the rain, lapping it up into mud puddles, or rivulets that streaked across the ground and carried little twigs or blades of grass in their currents. Dave did not bring an umbrella. He had thought to, but he hadn't wanted to. If Mayor was going to be in the rain, drenched and poor and miserable on the day of his remembrance, then so was he.

A few people said some things at his service. Rose with her lace black blouse, Roxy with a gloved hand pressed to her mouth and a flask, hidden but visible, in her purse. John wore the same suit as he had when he went to the social club, it was black, and made him look like a business man. He cried, miniscule tears, hardly noticeable for the rain spattered around his face, but they were there. They happened.

Dave didn't cry. He didn't want to. Crying meant that this was over, that he was in acceptance. He was not. He didn't cry.

After the service, the group dissipated from the graveyard, leaves fallen from a branch in autumn. The workers from the cemetery shovelled mud and upturned soil back onto the casket and the empty clangs of wet earth, thrown onto thin wood and left there for the rest of eternity, filled the air. No one would ever dare to dig into a set gravesite, not even one belonging to a homeless man. At least he would be safe here.

Dave stayed. He watched, hands in pockets, hair hanging down in thick, dripping strands by his eyes, and silently said his goodbye. It was not a formal goodbye, not the one that is sent to a relative who is moving overseas, or one given to someone committed to the noose. It was softer and delicate, eyelet lace and falling feathers, a goodbye said after a meal of tea fancies and sugar cookies, a goodbye that is not lasting, but temporary, a seal set over parchment letters and primed to be peeled open once more.

He did not cry. He might have forgotten how to.

Something touched his arm, an anchor, amazingly distant and yet still firm enough to rouse Dave from his thoughts. Had they been closer, better friends perhaps, John might have taken his hand and let his bare skin share the small supply of warmth he possessed and stroked his thumb over his palm, but he didn't, and so it took a moment for Dave to blink, to focus upon the hand on his upper arm. His jacket was soaked, sticking to his skin and weighted with wetness but impossibly, John looked entirely dry beside him. He really did carry around an umbrella for a reason. John held it over the both of them as he stood, temporarily quelling the downpour.

"I'm sorry," he said, his eyes drawn into a frown, words heavy and calculated. They meant more than the usual condolence. It was a real apology for something that really happened, and Dave understood.

Dave wetted his lips, took his hands from his pockets, and sent one last flick of acknowledgement to the now covered gravesite. A tiny tombstone, a cheap slab of worthless engraved stone, marked his place.

_Mayor of R &R. _

_A friend._

_Unknown – 1922_

 

John pressed on, both hands clasped over the bent handle of his umbrella, as if pleading. "There was no way I – we... _I_ – could have known when I took you out, Dave. You have to know that. Please know that."

Dave spoke flatly, no longer looking at him but again at the gravestone. "I know."

Both of them were silent, unsure and drawn in on themselves, stray dogs wounded from a fight and licking their wounds.

"You should get out of the rain," John soothed eventually, as if nothing had ever happened. Even though his umbrella was hanging over the both of them, the fabric didn't quite reach all of Dave, and so droplets of occasional rain hit his back, collected and prepacked, like prescribed medicine from the spines of the umbrella.

He didn't want to be here anymore; everything about the place was giving him jitters. But his own home was no better. Everything there reminded him of Mayor. He hadn't slept in his own bed again since Mayor's body was removed. The sheets were still left unchanged, still thick with the scent of him. He made his home on the couch now.

There was nothing left to say. He spoke anyways. "Yeah."

"Do you want me to drive yo--"

"It's fine. I'm wet already."

The corners of John's mouth made an attempt at a comforting smile, a sympathetic expression. He stopped before it could be completed and then nodded.

"Bye, Dave."

"Yeah."

 

 

Tuesday July 1, 1922

 

 

The Lalonde sisters were kind enough to give him time off, to let him ease out of the grief and slowly step back into the living world with the rest of them. He had been finding it hard though. Everything was much, much more comfortable when he did not have to function like a normal human. It simplified things, he found, kept the ache at bay and let him sleep for as long as he liked, till the sun sun went down and his room was swathed in drawn curtains and lingering sun heat. He set up shop on the couch, a comforter or two piled onto it at all times, a stubby pillow and the radio on for as long as he could stand it. The couch was actually not so bad to rest on, if he was tired enough, and if he ignored the springs sticking up into his back, or the smell of must and dust that crept up from every pore of the pillows and cushions. It was better than the alternate, which he did not want to even consider.

His home was in no better shape than it had ever been, it was still a certifiable dump, but it was now lacking the certain organization he had somehow managed to establish previously. Mugs rested on the floor alongside the feet of the couch and coffee table, stained with rings of old tea and crusted in the bottom where sugary concoctions left to dry. Dave found he had a new habit, as past time even, of misplacing items. Bowls ended up in the fridge, and loose socks on the counter. Headache pill bottles found themselves wedged between his cushions and there was certainly a fallen spoon amongst them as well. Dave could feel it as he lay, it poked into his side at times if he moved the right way, but he didn't find a need to remove it. If anything, it was a running inside joke between him and the couch. The couch was probably his funniest friend ever.

Things were put down languidly and forgotten idly, or were then picked up with urgency and meaning, and then in the process of relocating them, were again forgotten in an equally wrong position. Slowly, his home fell into even stronger disarray.

His windows fogged with condensation, the humidity inside not able to press outwards, not allowed to escape. The heat was at times too much, suffocating and choking him, fingers clawing and dragging at his windpipe, but he didn't want to do anything about it, or take off his blankets, or change into his boxer shorts and nothing else. He certainly did not want to open a window, since he might hear a car honk or hear a group of children rush by with giggles and lollipops and little dogs that followed them and nipped at their heels, and then his heart might break all over again and leave him with a heart attack. No, the windows must have to stay closed, the radio must had to remain the only source of sound in the room, and nothing would ever exit, nor enter.

It felt like he was dying. He hoped that he was.

The radio, as loud as it was sometimes set, could not always drown out his thoughts. He had the station set to something that played a lot of music, a real swanky station he thought, jazz and swing music, things with upbeat tunes and slow soulful songs that made him remember crying again. But there were breaks in the songs, there were times that he tuned it out. There were times that his mind was no long drowned out, and instead was screaming, yelling for attention, scraping its fingers over his skin. Sometimes it was whispering. It said such awful things to Dave. He wanted to cry, but it never happened.

He had lost Mayor. He was devoid of the one person who had stuck around him for the longest, out of will and not obligation, someone who wanted to be there and didn't need a bribe or a reason to. He was gone.

His brother was gone too. This was a fact that he accepted by now, something he had thought he came to terms with long ago. His brother also, was someone who had been there for the joy of it, but he also was committed to it, committed to taking care of Dave. That was ok. That made things stable, made them normal. He missed normal.

Dave's brother hadn't gone out with a quiet sputter and cough, he did not raise a single white flag or go down in peace. He was strong, and admirable, and the epitome of everything of Dave's dreamings. He had not gone down without a fight.

Mayor did not either. His fight, his will to keep pressing on to see more sunrises, was not something that had gone unnoticed by Dave.

And here he was, the remaining one, the one left over and crumbling at the sides and drooping in the middle. He was not going down in flames or the roar of a dying plane engine, nor was he struggling against his own body, fists blazing and eyes alive. He was going down, simply and without complaint, hands held high in the air and opened to show that yes, there was not a single weapon at his disposal.

He felt disgusting to know that.

Across from him, hardly even visible in the absence of light, was a coffee table. It was dusted and lined in spilled drink, and there was a homely pile of papers, newsprint and flyers, resting on one corner. Some of the papers had fallen, sunken to the cold floor and abandoned, forgotten by their comrades. Dave pulled the lip of his blanket under his chin, and squinted.

There, on the slab of neglected wood, was a pair of goggles.

He did not remember when he last picked them up, or why, or even if the coffee table was his intended, eventual home for the contraption, but there they were, stark as daylight.

The roiling in Dave's stomach started again, a familiar feeling by now. It was stranger this time, ebbed with things he did not quite understand yet, things he was not sure he could even appreciate if he did identify them. He was angry, yes, resentful, definitely. John had no right to take him out of his apartment like that, and he had no right to affect Mayor's life like that, and he would be angry and resentful all he wanted about it.

Under that emotion, a rational part of his mind reminded that no, he did not to anything to harm Mayor, and that he was even a close friend of him. Maybe almost as close as he and Dave. And he had cried more than him at the funeral. Not that tears meant a single thing in way of proof, but still. They happened more on his face than on Dave's.

And under that thought, perhaps if Dave could see it more clearly through the dense fog and mess in his mind, he might have noticed a trace of minute, yet distinguishable fear.

He had already lost his parents, his brother, his friend.

Not John too, surely?

The parts of his mind that whispered these things, that tried, unsuccessfully, to bring them to daylight, were mostly entirely ignored by the emotion driven part of him.

Every part of his brain though, did hear the phone ring.

He did hear it, and he blinked and showed response to the sound. He almost got up. But it didn't happen, his body didn't bend at the waist, he didn't slide his legs out over the side of the short couch. Instead, he waited. The phone rang, and rang, and rang twice more, and then it went silent.

It was clear to him who it was that had been calling him twice a day, once around noon and again later in the afternoon, for the past 3 days. It was the owner of the goggles on his coffee table, presumably to ask where on earth they had gone and if Dave could please give them back now if it wasn't a big deal?

He didn't want to give them away.

He went back to sleep, letting the discomfort of the cushions and the spoon wedged against his back keep him distracted. 


	9. Thursday July 3, 1922

Whether Dave particularly felt up to it or not, work was still a chore that he had to get back to. He still had rent to pay, and on the few occasions he ventured out of the house, groceries that needed purchasing. Like it or not, returning to his job was mandatory sooner or later.

And so, after nearly a week of letting himself rot in his apartment, listening to the sounds of doors downstairs close and people murmuring on the street below, and mug after mug of cooled coffee being dumped into the sink basin, Dave was summoned back to work, gently prodded at and coerced, and then he was there.

In body, at least. Much less in mind, and very definitely not in soul.

Rose thought it important that he didn't manage the first shift back on his own, as if staying at home for a few weeks would have made him forget entirely how his job went. He didn't find the effort needed to tell her that it was unnecessary for him to have help, and so apparently that was taken as his consent. In the end, he was glad for it. She handled most of the real work, dealing with customers and mixing drinks and being pleasant, and he did the more menial jobs, the restocking, the inventory count. Dishes. Floors. Counters.

Empty bar stool.

No matter how many times he tried to look away, to refocus his attention on a chore or to redirect his mind to something of actual meaning, his eyes kept drifting, consistently and invariably, to that one stool. It was force of habit by now, his muscles causing the action more so than his mind. He looked, and then he saw the vacant spot, and then he looked away, heart tugging into smaller, more fragmented pieces each time.

And then, miraculously, horrendously, the seat was no longer vacant.

"Oh," he stammered, flat in tone. "Hey."

John leaned his forearms on the counter, lips pressed into something close to a sympathetic smile, and nodded mutely. He looked, actually, normal. There were no tear stains around his eyes, no redness, no puffiness, no expression that looked ready to pitch into a sob at any moment. He was not unsteady in his seat, and he did not look on the verge of hysteria. He was just John, normal and predictable, and that hurt.

He was awful, and heartless, and cruel, and so wrong, _so_ _ wrong _ , why was he sitting there, acting like he didn't have a damn care in the world and was only tiptoeing through Dave's tricky nerves?  _ He _ had lost Mayor too.  _ He _ should be grieving too. 

Dave looked away and pretended to busy himself with the counter once more. It was clean, it was perfectly clean since he had scrubbed it down twice in the past twenty minutes, doused it in disinfectant and made it shine. Dave was close to spitting on it, just for the excuse to clean it once more.

"How're you doing?" John prodded. He was using the utmost gentleness in his voice. It was making Dave begin to feel queasy.

He nodded absently, letting his head bob while he wiped at the counter, as if somehow, that was a sufficient answer. There really was no answer he felt like giving John, since all of the honest ones were sour and dismal, and John just looked so  _ chipper _ today. He'd hate to break that emotion. It'd be a shame. An outright crime it would be, to make him experience the same grief Dave was subjected to. 

"...Dave."

"What?"

"I think that counter is pretty clean. You're going to scrub a hole into the wood if you keep doing that."

"Maybe that's my goal," he said dryly, flicking his eyes up just for a moment to him. It was his hope that the connotation was clear – John's judgement was not needed and definitely not appreciated. "Maybe I'm trying to dig my way out of here, smell that sweet, sweet victory air outside. Mm, can you imagine it? I'm imagining it, John. Imagine the glory with me. Do it."

"Ok, ok, I am imagining. My mind is working so hard right now, but I have a really good cinema in my head. I should charge admission tickets, don't you think?"

It was clear to him that John was just trying to make a joke, to perhaps see a smile or break the mood, and maybe, that too had been what Dave was attempting to do. He didn't feel like doing it anymore though and he quickly reverted to his staunch mood, complete with scowl and tight lipped frown.

"Anyways," he said, bringing the focus back off of jokes. "Chocolate milk." 

John nodded, a hint of a hopeful smile easing his lips into a curve. "Please."

He set to his usual routine with John, filling his tall glass to the brim with the viscous liquid, a red stripped straw topping off the picture. Sliding it across the counter, he nodded at the glass. "No idea how you can drink that sludge every day. It's a lot for your body to deal with. Can't be healthy."

"Huh?" John scrunched the bridge of his nose like he was a child, eyes squinted. "Since when did you care about healthiness? I'm pretty sure you live off of slices of white bread and apples."

"Been having a lot of soup lately. Changes a man in ways you'd never understand," he deadpanned right back, resisting the urge to raise his brow at him.

Shrugging at that, John took leisurely sips at his milk, for now passing off his ill temper and pretending to ignore it.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

It took Dave a moment to frown, and then another to try and comprehend what on earth John was bringing up tomorrow for. "Work," he said, a hint of question in the end of his word. "Why?"

"Well, hello? It'll be July 4 th , mister. And are you seriously trying to tell me you don't have anything planned at all for fourth?"

Oh. Right.

Dave nodded slowly, once, and then twice, and then pulled a face as he thought. "I don't usually do anything anymore for it. I mean... when I was a kid, me and my brother would go out and do things, get some lemonade from the street venders and shit, I guess, but when he was gone I mostly just... I don't know. Worked. It just a pretty normal day for me. I still go out to get lemonade though. That's a thing I'll do even if I got lemons at home. Tastes different if you buy it."

John was giving him an horrified look, his hand no longer able to hold the cup of milk up and letting it rest instead on the still damp counter. "You're kidding, right?" he asked, jaw hanging a little slack as if Dave had just explained to him that he did not in fact live off of white bread and apples, but that he actually has been a practising cannibal for the past 12 years. "That's really all you do? Dave!" 

"I don't see what's so wrong with that. If I don't have nothing better to do, then I don't mind taking over the place for the day, give Rose and Roxy a night off. May as well, right?" He shot a look at Rose, who was not occupied with much of anything at the moment. She offered up a contrite expression from the till and he turned back to John, as if that was his entire case of proof that he was in the green. "See?"

"Rose, you can't be cool with this?" he asked, looking from one to the other, almost as if searching for the visible logic in the situation. "He's gotta do something on Fourth of July. At _least_ not work."

"He under no obligation to do so," Rose said pointedly, her wry glare boring into Dave's inattentive side. "We normally close on that day, but he's offered to open the store and manage it himself on previous years. And so we let him, but he can really spend the day any way he likes."

Even further baffled by that explanation, John's mouth opened and a breath was drawn, words ready to pour out, no doubt in an unstoppable and stupid torrent, but Rose cut him off before he even spoke.

"That being said," she continued forcefully, "He still should make something of the day. Getting out of the place once in a while is a good thing. And now that he has someone who wants to spend the day with him..." Dave could feel her pair of eyes piercing into him, maybe one of her brows arched suggestively, and he worked hard to not look back. This counter top was going to get _clean_ one way or another, and he kept at his scrubbing. "I think heading off somewhere into the city is a good idea, don't you?"

The question was raised towards Dave, but John jumped in, taking the opportunity to voice his own opinion.

"Exactly! If he stopped going when his brother did, then I could, kind of, I dunno, take over that spot. Just for the day? What do you say Dave?"

He wasn't looking at the either of the two, and yet at the question, he gritted his teeth. It was one thing for John to come in and sit in Mayor's seat with a giant grin on his face, but it was another for him to offer to take his brother's place for a day.

"Maybe next year." Maybe next year he'd be dead too, along with everyone else. Maybe next year would be better.

"Oh, come on!" John pressed, "We can go out and get lemonade and hot dogs and see the parades. And fireworks! Jeez, those are really my favourite, by far. Don't you like fireworks, Rose?"

"They do have a certain appeal to them, sure."

"See? Even  _ Rose _ likes fireworks! You gotta come now." 

Only sighing out through his nose, Dave shrugged ruefully. He hoped that the both of them picked up on just how many incredible levels of spite he had managed to pack into that tiny little movement.

Who was he kidding, John would never notice something as subtle that.

" _ Fine, _ ok? I'll go to the god damn Fourth of July shindig. Whatever, just so long as it doesn't take the entire day." 

"Dave," John said, eyes squinted with a smile, "It's going to take the entire day and then some. Get some sleep tonight!" A meaty hand clapped him on the back, thick and reassuring, or at least meant to be, and then John dumped out his change for the milk and hopped off the counter.

"I gotta go take care of some stuff, bye Rose!" He waved, and then gave a look to Dave as he started walking out. "No all nighters reading or something tonight, I mean it. I know you do that sometimes and you can't tonight. See ya!"

"Sure," Dave muttered to himself as the bar door swung shut, carrying John's bulk with it, "Easy for you to say."

 


	10. Friday July 4, 1922

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So it's been what, 2 weeks since my last update? Sorry about that, I suppose. Life's been a very stupid pain in the ass lately and with that, procrastination has settled itself firmly into my routine. Not to mention this was a loooong chapter and try as I might, I still can't get it to sound like I planned. Anyways, ok, enough of my excuses, I hope it's not as terrible as I think!

"Look, all I'm sayin' is –"

"No! Dave, you're wrong. You are so wrong, you do not even –"

"No, listen, just hear me out here."

"Nope! It's all part of the experience! Wrong! Don't make me put my fingers in my ears and –"

"John, for crissakes, we're in the middle of a parade –"

"La la la la la la la la!"

"Fuckin' hell, John, you're the reason I hate people. And parades. Seriously now, fuck parades. And before you try to correct me again, I was just saying that these parades would be a lot better if they could get rid of all the crowds and make it a hell of a lot less stuck outdoors. My face is probably already burnt from the sun and we haven't been here an hour yet."

Really, the parade that John dragged him to wasn't all that extravagantly awful. It was crowded, yes, and pointlessly drawn out, also yes, and there were more sounds and sights than Dave could ever be comfortable, absolutely yes, but other than that, it was ok.

It was almost enjoyable, though that may have been the lemonade doing the talking, distracting him from the overall shitiness of the world. It was good for that, and did its job exceptionally well.

He and John were meandering through the thickly crowded streets, the midday sun hot and pressing thick on them, only partially stopped by their thin shirts and shorts. It was rare that Dave would ever dress this casually in public, but the festive occasion called for it apparently, and also John wouldn't let him leave the apartment if he wasn't dressed in something "more summery", as he had deemed it. There had been groaning and there had been complaining, and then ultimately John had resorted to raiding Dave's dressers for something that wouldn't get him heat stroke if he was out in the sun for more than five minutes.

They had stopped to get lemonade and cinnamon doughnuts along the way, the confectioneries hot, freshly made and covered in crystals of sugar, and quick to be devoured. Despite Dave's feeble protests, they were now trying to see the parade through the forest of people that cropped up in every direction that he could turn his eyes. He supposed he appreciated the effort John was putting into the day, all the plans he had made and all the thought he had poured into it, but he was feeling stuffy and pressed in by all sides. His mood was not at all prepared for being immersed in this festive kind of atmosphere.

John gave a chuckle at his side and pointed up ahead to the distant and slow moving line of floats that made up the slug-like line of parade.

Frowning at the prospect of float watching, Dave followed the silent instruction all the same and squinted at the display. The vehicle was decked out in ribbons and stars and all things glaringly American, and it looked gaudy in every possible way. It occurred to Dave that people actually put effort, real time and labour and thought into these things, and it all felt a little stupid to him. It was pointless when there were things so much more important to focus upon than dressing up a silly car to look like the flag.

His eyes wandering up to the tall buildings lining the streets, and then to the sunny sky, Dave stuffed his hands into his pockets. The fabric of his shorts were unfamiliar, too coarse of a grain to be worn often, and it was alien against his fingertips. The skin on his arms and nose smarted from its growing burn. A man was standing before them with a child seated on his shoulders, entirely blocking whatever meagre view they had, and Dave released a worn out breath.

"How long is this thing supposed to go on for?"

Turning back to Dave, John set his hand on his hip and then took a sip from his lemonade. He had chewed around the edges of the styrofom cup, leaving a jagged rim, and he looked just about as sour right then as the drink tasted. Maybe even more so, since he didn't have any sugar to break the sting.

"If you really need to leave," he started, eyeing Dave like he had posed a challenge, "Then I guess we can go. But the parade is going to keep going for another half hour or something."

It was obvious that John was egging him towards staying for the last little bit, but Dave had suffered through more than a half hour of this so far and he wanted to go home now. Home sounded good, with his couch and his blankets that were too hot for the weather and his pots and bowls with left over soup in them that he hadn't been bothered yet to wash clean. Home was a good place to go.

Anywhere would work, really, as long as it was somewhere that wasn't here. Shifting from foot to foot and looking at the decorated cars and trucks driving by, he tugged at the corner of his mouth in thought. It took a serious amount of effort not to demand that they pack up and leave right now.

"You want to go, don't you?" John sighed, his shoulders drooping.

There was no point in denying it with John guessing, and so Dave shrugged. "Yeah."

John only nodded and turned from the sights, his demeanour thoroughly crestfallen. It made Dave feel a little bad he supposed, that he had to drag John away from the sights, but only a little. He hadn't wanted to go today at all, so didn't the blame for how the morning panned out lay squarely on John's shoulders?

"Where are we goin'?" he pipped up, trailing after John as they weaved in through the messy sidewalks and packed side streets till they reached his car parked on the curb.

Shrugging, John unlocked the door forcefully and fell into his seat. Dave slipped in after him, finishing off his drink and sitting the cup on his lap as he watched John work the levers and pedals of the car. Everything about John now seemed so hard edged and irritated, as if he were a piece of sheet metal, shiny on one side and thin, bent brutally out of shape and left in the stark sunlight to shine and glare at the rest of the world till nighttime fell.

"My place, I guess," he said finally, pulling off from the curb. "Is that ok with you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that's ok."

They fell into silence, John staring out at the packed road and trying to drive as slowly as he could so pedestrians could get out of his way, and Dave out the window, cheek in palm. He knew that John was upset, and he knew that it was his fault, but part of him just did not want to care. There was a cold aching and hurting lodged into his chest that spiked into pain every time he breathed, and being dragged out to an event like this was not his idea of a good time, nor would it cure him of his grief.

Even so, he was being awful to John. Really awful, actually. All he had tried to do since the beginning was help, and Dave only pushed him away with every step that John tried to take forward.

It was reminiscent of how he had started pushing Mayor away in end, when he had been spending so much time with John that he could hardly even notice himself ruining his bond with Mayor. But that had been different, maybe, since Mayor had seemed to know that John was what he needed and he had let him go because of it.

Now though, he was left with John, and only him, and was it selfish to cling to him more completely now that he was all he had remaining?

 

Regardless of the number of times Dave had found himself in the impressive Egbert home, he was still prone to the quiet awe that the place subjected over him. The estate was grand, with aged red brick walls and curling vines spreading out over them, easing out further and further in the summer sun every time John invited him over. The furniture was a far cry from the mismatched mess of couch and rickety kitchen tables that laid in Dave's home and everything seemed to be carefully selected with an eye for upscale tastes. When prompted, John had explained with a careless laugh that the building was where he and his sister had grown up and that his parents had harboured a certain fondness for extravagance and grandiose decorating. After they passed away, he and Jade had not the mind nor the reason to redesign the place, and so it had simply remained as it had always been, housing memories and echoes of childhood long gone in every one of its stone floored halls.

There were, obviously, bits and pieces scattered around in the building that spoke of the new owners throughout the solid home, such as a few books stashed every which where that proclaimed titles such as "AreoDynamics" or "The New Manual of Flight and Safety", or the smattering of collectable model planes on the mantlepiece from John. Jade had things and trinkets as well, and a wall that proudly brandished its stock of prized of guns, which to say the least, surprised Dave at first and impressed him later. There were more plants in the house than Dave could even count, beautiful arrangements of cut flowers on the kitchen table, hanging baskets of live ferns in the halls, little potted flowers near the bathroom sink, and a huge ficus growing in the main hall. Its home was made in a large, wooden planter that made Dave wonder just how one earth it had been transported into the building in the first place.

Dave followed his host inside the cool building, who made himself at home on his kitchen table with elbows resting on the dark wood grained finish. Mirroring his stance, Dave looked out at the airy window that streamed in daylight, the panelled glass lined by thin lace behind the kitchen sink.

On the white painted and clean sill sat a row of dainty and colourful bottles. Some were plain and transparent and caught the light like a spider web's spun silk stuck in rain, and some of them were deeper in colour, opal blue and sea green, wide rim mason jars and washed out milk bottles, some filled to the brim with sand or water with bubbles on the side, some entirely empty or entirely full of marbles. It was an eclectic collection, but it caught the sunlight in a sharp miracle and Dave found his eyes getting stuck, time and time again, on the uneven row of things there. The curtains were airy in the gentle breeze from the window and they danced amidst the heavy bottles, like angles flitting in amongst slow, sluggish mortals.

It was relaxing to watch. He didn't realize that John was fixing them lunch till he looked over and a neat sandwich was set before him, between his propped up elbows. He had even poked a toothpick through the middle.

"Oh," he said as his eyes focused on the plate, "Thank you."

"No problem," John mumbled, sitting down across from him with a similar lunch. He didn't seem so annoyed anymore, not angry or threatened in his happiness or any of that. He just seemed reserved, careful again. Dave didn't quite like seeing him like that.

"Kind of funny, huh," he said in a chance that maybe, making John laugh was an absolutely brilliant idea. "You're the one behind the counter this time. How's it feeling?"

He shrugged, casual and disinterested, but Dave could see the small glimmer of a smile in his expression, the sun poking out through storm clouds and dying to be seen.

"Next thing you know you'll be slapped into an apron by Roxy and sent to work in my stead," he pressed on, grinning despite John and looking out over to the glasses on the sill again.

Both of them lapsed into a strange, contemplative silence, the kind that was hard to break and even harder to pass through without feeling just a little self conscious.

"I don't think I'm really cut out for that kind of job," John admitted quietly and Dave realized that the both of them had been staring out the window. Glancing over in interest, he watched John chew absently on his lower lip, eyes still averted.

"And why's that?"

One shrug served as his answer for a moment, and then John elaborated. "I dunno." It wasn't a very good elaboration.

Dave waited and John continued hesitantly, as if finding his words was equivalent to picking his way up a steep and treacherous mountain path, rocks and loose rubble speckled in his way.

"People are hard for me to deal with a lot of the time. I mean – not all. Not people like you or Roxy or Rose. Or how Mayor was. You guys are my friends and that's easy. But, I don't know. Other people are usually pretty awful and even when they're not, I just muck things up all on my own. I'm actually kind of surprised that didn't happen with you." John looked over at him finally, eyes shinning and wide and so, so vulnerable. "For a while I thought I was just kidding myself and you really hated me."

"I did hate you," Dave said honestly, but it was soft enough that he knew John got the idea.

John's mouth finally eased into a smile, his eyes looking down at the table between them. He touched at the plate before him. "I know. I'm glad you don't anymore, though."

Dave nodded and let the quiet fall out between them, let it stretch and roll its shoulders and get comfortable, and this time, it wasn't hard to break the silence at all, not even a little. "Would you do it differently if you could?"

The question confused John, his brows drawn together as he thought up an answer. "Not really. I think we kind of turned out ok in the end. I wouldn't know what to do differently if I had the chance, honestly."

"Same here. But I was askin' about if you would do it – all of it, your life – over again. Everything a complete do-over. Would you?"

John blinked and then closed his eyes, his face skewing and pitching strangely in thought. Dave realized that he was so very expressive when he had something to think about, his entire face contorted for a simple question. It was interesting to watch, but definitely not something he'd dub as cute, even in the privacy of his own mind.

"All of it?"

"Every last second of it."

"What would I do differently? Everything I did might not have been so great, and some of it was hard as anything to get through, but really... it made me into me. And all of it, all of the awfulness, it all turned out to bring me here. With you. And for the first time in a really long time, I think I'm ok with where I am. So no, I wouldn't redo anything. Would you?"

Dave himself had to take some time to answer, but not because he was thinking of his history and his experiences. Mostly, he was hung up on the fact that John was actually happy. _Happy_. Was that a thing that normal people were? Or was John just immune to the great terrible atrocity of life?

"I would," he finally said, "I would change a whole lot of stuff – almost everything."

Bobbing his head, John gave him that piecing look, the one that could probably strike right through his skull if he tried hard enough, and then shot him the hardest question. "Why?"

"Because life's a total pain in the ass."

Easing back into a grin, John again nodded. "Ok, yeah, I can definitely understand that one. Life really is a kick in the pants. But I mean, no matter what you change, it's still going to be hard. Grass is greener on the other side, Dave, always, even if you could change everything like some kind of god."

Growing quiet, Dave let that notion take root in his mind. It was a slow sort of understanding that grew and unfurled in his consciousness like flowers blooming in daylight. He decided he liked it.

He wasn't quite hungry, so he stood and walked over to the bottles and glasses and little jars, and looked past them to the world outside. He thought he was always the sort to stand around and think, and today seemed like a good a day to do that as any. John came up behind him, resting against the corner of the kitchen cupboards.

"Jade keeps them there," he informed, looking at Dave instead of the sill. "I never really understood why, but they look nice and I couldn't convince her to get rid of them if I wanted to. So I guess they're here to stay." John smiled as he talked, as if he wasn't able to breath without the curl of his lip. Dave noticed that the skin around his eyes creased and crinkled up as he did. He'd get crows feet when he aged from all that smiling, but somehow, that didn't seem like a possible bad thing. Seeing him with laughter lines so far into the future would be a treat. It's be nice to be there for it.

"They're pretty," Dave said simply, honestly.

There was a niggling thing in the back of his mind that he had wanted to bring up since the beginning of forever, and now seemed as good a time as ever, with the open window's light breeze playing over their partially exposed skin. "Why do you drink chocolate milk in the bar?" he asked, forgetting the glasses and looking to John solely now. "I know you actually drink sometimes – we got drunk together. So why do you only drink milk at the bar?"

Snorting, John shrugged at the question. A little disappointed that he wasn't being taken seriously, Dave frowned.

"I don't know, I like chocolate milk a lot."

"You know what I mean," he pressed, determined that there must be a real reason, "It got me so confused when you first asked for it – honestly I think it was the only reason I started liking you, it got me interested in you."

John started harbouring a cheeky smile and Dave knew then he had said the wrong thing. "You're interested in me?" he teased, laughing at his own joke. The daylight was creamy on his face, smooth and whole and so touchable, and for a moment, just a second, Dave wanted to tell him the truth, all of it.

"You're avoiding the question now," he said instead, smiling absently as well.

"And you are avoiding my question now," John grinned, pushing on his arm loosely as if that prompting would get him to speak. "But sure, I'll go first. I really do like chocolate milk, even if I do drink sometimes. I don't really know why I do what I do, I just don't like the idea of drinking all the time. It seems like a good way to get old fast."

The radio behind them was humming to itself, quiet jazz and swing and heavy saxophone solos, and Dave only smiled at the explanation. He saw his opportunity and he tentatively, hesitatingly, _pain_ fully, took it. "Would it be strange of me to say that I always thought you were kind of this... I don't know, this oddity. You come across as so innocent sometimes, even when it comes to things like the milk and the way you don't step on cracks on the sidewalk and just _everything_ about you, but then you're so much more than that too. And then I think about the things you had to go through for war and – I just don't want you to go through anything like that again. It's weird, I know, but I just want to keep you happy. And safe."

John listened quietly and, for once, politely as Dave spoke and when he was done he nodded a few times. His eyes were focused solely on Dave's and he looked like somehow, a part of him had been struck sensitively. There was a glossiness to his eyes that hadn't been there before. "I think I understand that."

"You mean I'm not a obsessive freak of a friend?"

There was that smile of his making another appearance, the one that could probably bowl Dave straight over if he looked at it hard enough. He wondered if a photograph of it would have the same effect, and if maybe, he might be able to get a picture of it one day. "Dave, you are nothing like that. It's actually nice to know you care that much..." he trailed off from his words, worrying his lip. "It's hard to tell with you a lot."

"Well, I do care."

He smiled in return to John's soft little expression and for a second his heart fluttered embarrassingly. The startling truth to the matter was that really, he did care for John an awful lot, more than he'd ever caught himself caring before. Seeing him smile was enough for his mind to be put at rest that maybe, John cared just as much.

"I know, Dave."

The spontaneous hug had Dave taking a step back at the surprise of it, but once he realized that John was only trying to hug him and not kill him or something, he relaxed well enough, arms carefully wrapping around him in return. John was surprisingly solid against him, a comfort to lean on, and he was pleasantly interested to feel John pressing his nose into his thinly clothed shoulder. Slowly and unsure if this was overstepping some kind of boundary, he squeezed his arms just a tad and let his cheek rest on John's temple.

"Is this some kind of cultural ritual that I'm not aware of for the sealing of a friendship?" he teased, grinning into his hair. John squirmed against him and scowled into his face, and there wasn't a single thing Dave wanted to do but smile right back and keep his arms locked around him.

"I guess you could call it that," he mused after tucking back against him. Like this, John's voice was just a little muffled by Dave's shoulder and he could feel his breath puffing out against his shirt. Strangely, it was comforting, something that he felt he might not be able to live without after getting a taste of it.

For a few moments, there was no sound or reason to speak in the room except for the radio still lilting around them, the music making Dave swing just a little, back and forth, in time to the beat. His hands drifted around on him till he was holding him with one hand on his waist and the other holding his hand.

John curiously eased out of his snuggle to look at him, having to look up just a few inches from their height differences. He wore an interested expression, plain and open, and Dave felt like maybe this was a good idea.

Speaking was harder than he had anticipated and he choked for a second on his words before swallowing the nerves down. "May I have this dance?" he asked carefully, smiling in embarrassment.

He blushed shamefully red when John smiled in agreement, abashed, and squeezed his hand in response.

It felt different to dance with a man than what Dave was used to, both of them not wanting to be the one to place their hand on the others shoulder and take the women's position, and so they had to deal with the slight awkwardness of both their hands on their waists. Even so, John still knew how to move to the music and he was more than decent at it as well, so there really wasn't any issue there. The song was slow and soft and a woman's voice strained out the chalky melody as they swayed together, and Dave's chest was beating a mile a minute.

Smiling at his flustered state, John just leaned back against him and ducked his head enough to rest it to his collarbone. Not able to do this any longer without giving a similar grin of contentment and achievement, he sighed in the quiet and, moving with John, danced through the song on his kitchen floor. Every once in a while his eyes caught up on the light from outside, the slow moving curtains or the shine of the clean sunlight on the counters, and for the first time in what seemed like years, he was actually enjoying a dance again.

"You planned this, didn't you?" he murmured into John's hair, smelling of fresh air and the sun that had rained down on it all morning. "You never just have the radio on."

"I'd never do something like that, Dave, and you know it. Stop accusing me."

"Sure."

"I might have had the idea for it and then did things to set it up," he confessed quietly and Dave could feel his lips move against his skin as he spoke. "But I'd never plot something, gee."

Wistful, Dave slowed down the dance a little, till they were just hardly swaying, not moving their feet anymore."You should plan these things more often."

At this, John pulled back from him and inspected his face, a sombre expression on his face. "Dave, you know you don't have to wait for me to do something like this – if I didn't feel comfortable with you I wouldn't have even done everything I did with you today."

"Well, I know," he said, brows hardening as he thought it over. "And I know that I can do shit with you, but, it's just hard to think of actually _starting_ it. If that makes any sense. It probably doesn't, huh?"

"No, I think I got it," John nodded, his eyes focused somewhere in front of him, center top of Dave's chest. "But that doesn't mean anything, you know. You're afraid of the things you might lose, aren't you?"

Dave opened his mouth to refute that, but John was pressing onwards fearlessly. "But what you really don't get is that, Dave, you already have so much. You have a nice place and a good job and Roxy and Rose and... and me. You have me, you know. I'm not just going to go away if you mess things up."

Feeling himself shrink back just a fraction or two from the weight of his words, Dave had to take a moment for that one. John did have a very valid point that no matter how much he tried to deny it, he was terrified of losing things, people in particular. And he knew that John couldn't just promise that he'd be there forever, since he _couldn't_ promise that, and his brother had promised it and it was a lie, but at least knowing that John was not planning on skipping out on his own pure will was a slight comfort. Actually, a pretty big comfort. His fingertips tightened their hold slightly on John's shirt, clutching to the fabric that kept him near, and let out a slow, shaky breath.

He wasn't going to cry. He had forgotten how to. He was not going to.

But then John pressed the backs of his knuckles on his cheek, brushed them over the fuzzy stubble of Dave's skin, and when he spoke he was so, so quiet, drowned out by the radiant smile he wore. "It's ok," he whispered, "You're allowed to cry."

The tears were slow to come, choking his throat and tightening it, but he could feel his face heating up with redness and his vision beginning to swim. It was entirely embarrassing, but John seemed to be perfectly ok with it, leaning back into him and bringing their slow swinging to a halt as his fingers traced up and down his shuddering back. He didn't many any noise as he cried, but he shook and quivered and he was getting the shoulder of John's shirt wet. All the pent up weight of his life, the grief and the loneliness, the loss and helplessness, all of it came tumbling down around the both of them, a building collapsing around a singular, solid pillar. Through it all, John didn't say a word, didn't laugh or make him feel stupid, he just stood there and was solid for him, and he might have kissed the side of his head, though Dave wasn't quite sure of that.

"There," he finally breathed once Dave pulled away enough to wipe at his eyes and start looking around for a tissue. John grabbed one and brought it to him, folded once in the middle. "Doesn't that feel better?"

He felt like a tiny little kid as he nodded and sniffled and took the tissue. "Yeah." He blew at his nose, loud and stuffed up, and then nodded again. "Didn't you want to go somewhere else before the fireworks?"

John smiled, warm and true, and maybe Dave didn't feel like strangling him anymore, but he did get the feeling that kissing him would be even nicer.

 

 

They went out to see a film in the cinema, a silent one with lots of gag reels and piano music that gave a cheerful ambiance. John thought it was just about the greatest thing to grace this planet's soil, and Dave, though it was always a treat to go to the cinema, was only marginally impressed. That took a good chunk of their afternoon and after a light dinner of packed sandwiches, it was hardly even an hour or so to pass before the sun would set and the fireworks would be started.

Unlike his lukewarm enthusiasm for the movie, Dave could certainly appreciate the appeal of fireworks. The last time he'd been out to see them he had been with his brother, the year before he set off for battle. It was a fond memory, the both of them sitting atop a grassy hill with their arms propping them up behind them, the dazzling sky reflecting off the whites of their eyes. That was probably one of the last times Dave had even see his brother looking so happy, and maybe, it was the last time he himself had been happy as well.

So when John suggested they find a spot to watch the night's events from atop that very same hill, Dave's throat tightened a few notches and his hands grew clammy, but he nodded all the same. If there was anything he had learned from that afternoon with John, it was that he could trust him, absolutely so. Sharing this with him wasn't going to ruin the memory he had shared with his brother there, or at least that was the hope.

And so as the sun set, the both of them sat down on the soft hill with tender grass bending under them and looked out over the dimming sky. The whole world went orange, then red, and then a shimmering pink that danced over the sky in wisps, and Dave couldn't remember the last time he had sat down to watch a sunset in its entirety. John had bought a bottle of red and, uncorked and without glasses, they passed it between the both of them, quiet and waiting for the show.

"What's Jade doing tonight," Dave muttered, brows pinched as he stared at the sky and realized he had forgotten all about her in the day's events. "I haven't seen her all day."

"Oh. She's out with a friend of hers. Some guy she apparently met, I don't know much about him."

Quirking his lip a fraction, Dave turned his attention to look at him. John's skin was swathed in the darkness of the atmosphere, but highlights of red and fragments of pink flecked the shine of his hair, his eyes. Turning to look at him in return, John frowned in confusion.

"What are you staring at me like that for?"

"Am I wrong in thinking that you're a protective older brother and are probably going to interrogate this guy when you meet him?"

"Psh, what? No, Dave. I am not like that!"

"Sure. So then you probably wouldn't mind him taking her to a spot just like _this_ for the evening, all romantic and cozy? I dunno, John. He might make a move on her on the picnic blanket. All kinds of scandalous things could happen. Think she's ready for that?"

"Dave." He levelled him an entirely serious look, unamused and stern. "If I can take care of myself with dweeb like you, then I'm sure she can handle herself."

Slipping into the joking mode, Dave let out a laugh. "Woah there, man, I'm gonna pretend that you did not just crush my fragile self esteem. My mind's blocking the memory, but I think my subconscious is starting to hate you."

John only smiled at that, his gaze falling to the grass between them, but then it was caught by a glimmer of light up above, and the booming sound of the first firework cutting into existence. His jaw dropped just half an inch, lips hardly even parted, and in the fading blue and green light of the explosion, he looked like the most beautiful thing Dave had ever seen.

He had to tear himself from the view of his friend to actually look at the sky, but it was just about equal in esthetic value to him. It did change a lot more and was admittedly better at keeping his attention. That was only probably because the fireworks were fleeting, only there for a few short seconds, but he knew that he was going to be able to look at John for a very long time.

He liked the idea of that. Of having John in his future. It was comforting to dwell on.

So maybe that was why, in the dazzling sizzle of the fireworks in the sky and the smell of burnt explosives and gunpowder, it felt like the right thing to do to shift his hand slightly, just a few inches, to rest over John's palm. His skin was burning where it touched him and his ears were distinctly warmed around the edges, but John didn't pull away. He didn't even seem to react aside from gently curling his fingers around his in return.

They sat like that, hand in hand, under the real and artificial stars till the evening breeze started to pick up into a gusty wind, and their light attire became too thin for the cold. Dave hadn't wanted to, and it seemed that neither did John, but he let go of his hand all the same as they got up, and then John drove him home.

John stepped out of his car as he did sometimes when they were on good terms and followed him up the fire escape to his back door, and it was so stupid, but Dave wished that he'd just lean in and kiss him as if he were a girl who'd been taken out on a date, and that for just this once, he wanted to be the one that needed protecting from the world.

John didn't though, which was probably something he could have anticipated. Instead, he stopped him from stepping inside him home so soon and bit at his lip and looked at the steel platform they stood on. There was hardly any light here without the streetlights nearby and the moon was a sliver in the sky, ineffective in lighting up the blue of John's eyes. Dave imagined how it would look anyways while he waited for him to speak. It was a much nicer thing to ponder than thinking about having to go back inside, back to his apartment where the blinds were firmly closed and there were empty dishes and a lost spoon in the couch to greet him.

"Today was nice," John said sheepishly, still looking down at the grated metal under their shoes. He scuffed one toe against it for a moment, making the rungs sing, and then pressed on. "And, you can say no if you want to, ok? But, I just wanted to offer this one more time. If you wanted to come up in a plane ride with me, that offer still stands. And like I said! You don't need to accept and I understand if you don't –"

"Yeah," he said quietly, just barely catching the sight of John's eyes flicking up towards his. "I'd like to do that with you."

Beaming as if he'd just promised to take him on a globe wide journey, John nodded a few more times than was necessary and then, after a few moments of him standing there with clearly too much energy to safely contain, he threw his arms around Dave's neck, catching him in a tight hug.

He breathed out a laugh, holding him in return till John drew away, still grinning like a loon. "Cool it, man. I said I'd go with you, not that I'd walk you down the aisle."

"Psh, shut your mouth, Dave." John looked too giddy to be safe while teetering on the fire escape, two stories up, but he was steady enough on his feet that Dave didn't feel the need to step in.

"Anyways," he mumbled, quieting down at last, "I'll let you get to bed and stuff. I did have a lot of fun today, though."

"Yeah, same here."

"Sleep well, Dave."

Dave was a classy man, and he would never do this on a real date, but as John walked away, hands stuffed hesitantly into his shorts pockets and head ducked as he jogged over to his car, he couldn't very well help the impulse to stare at his ass as he left. Smiling to himself in the darkness, he shouldered the door open and slipped into the coolness of home.

 


	11. Sunday July 6, 1922

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this chapter. Not really sure how I feel about any of my chapters, though if you're still sticking around for this then I must be striking lucky in some way. This is the third last chapter and boy am I excited to soon be free to write whatever else I want without being tied to this thing. (Not that I don't like writing this. But still, it's been a while. You understand.)

When John wanted something done, he got it done _fast_.

Dave was honestly surprised as how quickly he was able to set up the whole plane ride, but then in retrospect, it did make sense that the man who piloted and tested planes for a living would have little to no difficulty in getting some spare time in the pilot's seat. And if that pilot just so happened to bring along a passenger, well, who was to know?

John picked him up at the bar on a Sunday afternoon, wearing a grin bigger than his face and the same baggy coveralls that had caught Dave's attention so very long ago, the first time they had met. They still looked as stupid on him as ever, but at the same way, they looked _good_ , the bulky suit filled out well by his frame, his broad shoulders bulking out the mantle. A double pair of goggles hung from his hand as he walked in fresh off the street (both goggles were new, Dave noted, and neither sporting the carved-in initials of JE.). He grinned and waved him out from behind the bar.

Rose was working the place with him tonight, knowing of this prearranged meet up and doubling up on their shift so she could take over as Dave left. She gave a reserved nod over to the both of them before they hurried out of the store, transparently giddy and just maybe, a little too happy to see each others face.

 

The airfield was much of what Dave had anticipated, large, spacious, open fields of grass, and along the gravelled road of the property waited a hangar with a roof so large and sturdy Dave was a little flabbergasted to see it. John manoeuvred around the place as if he owned it, his purposeful strides taking him right to the back of the hangar and into a smaller field as Dave followed after behind him, distracted, at times having to scamper to catch up. There, being the hangar and lined up on the grass, was a proud stock of gleaming planes.

Their metal bodies caught the midday sunlight gorgeously, glimmering in their war paint and sporting some impressive propellers, and for a moment, Dave was caught up in the sight of them. He came to the realization that this was the very first time he'd ever even seen an airplane in the flesh, at least on the ground, up close. The entirety of his other encounters were limited to photographs in magazines and spotting the occasional plane droning overhead, paintings and concept models, hand drawn and painted, second hand stories from John.

But seeing it up close was a different experience in itself.

The metal bodies were actually smaller than he expected as they approached them on the ground, but Dave was perfectly ok with that upon seeing that the model John was walking towards had two glorious seats inside the cockpit, each leather lined and surprisingly luxurious. John had his pair of goggles around his neck and passed Dave's pair over, inviting him to put his own as he hopped up into the piloting seat.

"Well, hey, aren't you coming?" he called over, grinning from ear to ear as he set the goggles firmly over his eyes.

Seeing no need at all in making him wait, Dave eyed up the side of the plane and planned out the best way to hop in. John had made it look so easy and maybe if he just slid his leg up over that way...

Oh. No, that definitely was not right. Frowning as he tried to get himself up off the side of the plane so he was no longer straddling it like a horse, he did his utmost to ignore John's blatantly rude laughing.

"Hey, shut up, will ya?" he complained, finally getting seated behind him and trying to sort out the restraints on the seat. There were too many buckles here. "I've never been in a plane before, this isn't my fault."

His chastising did nothing to shut John up in the slightest, but once he had his straps on, securing himself to the seat and therefore, the plane, John calmed down his laughing and started up the engine. "Got those goggles on?" he shouted over his shoulder, making himself heard past the sound of the roaring motor.

"Yeah!" he yelled, not quite sure how loud he needed to be to get his voice across. It seemed the plane shook every bit of itself with reverberations, making the sides rattle and his teeth natter. It made him nervous that a bolt would shake lose in the middle of flight or something like that, which was a terrifying notion, and he was going to ask if this shaking was at all normal when John started taxiing the plane out over the field, turning it to face the long, empty strip of well worn grass. If John didn't think the excessive rumbling a reason for stalling then maybe, hopefully, he was going to be safe.

Dave was no longer a distant stranger to the motion of automobiles, having John driving him nearly anywhere whenever a passing whim arose had served him well. The ride of a car was familiar to him by now, but when John started accelerating, picking up speed steadily so they'd have enough velocity for lift off, Dave was gripping the sides of his seat fiercely, his eyes wide and focused on the back of John's head, lest he panic by watching the ground whizz by too fast. He knew naturally that planes had to go faster than cars to actually fly, but _being_ in a plane while it was speeding along a bumpy, uneven field was very different than anything he had imagined.

And then, somehow, impossibly, the ground lifted away, the rattling of the wheels bumping over the ground stopped shaking his bones, and they were tilted upwards, a reclining chair gone terribly, terrifyingly wrong.

And it was so beautiful.

The higher they rose, the higher they _flew_ , like two birds being carried and tossed by the warm thermal updrafts of the atmosphere, ready and primed for the glory of soaring above all the other little ants of the walking world.

John took them out past the airfield, still rising in altitude and pitched upwards, their faces looking up at the sky and the sun as it looked down upon them, a greeting and a meeting for the first time, a friendship made, formed, impossible to break every again. He banked slowly into a turn, the plane tilting to the side as they leaned into it, and Dave nearly let out a shout of exuberance at the sight of the trees far below them, uniform and perfect, like soldiers marching off into battle with they, the two of them, as commanders in chief. He wasn't aware of it, but the smile he wore on his face was wider than anything he'd done in so very long, not even that one night, with the fireworks and his brother. Not even then was he this excited, not then was his blood rushing like he had just climbed 40 flights of stairs and was still raring to go again.

The wind bit at his skin and he could feel it hammering into them as he leaned into the force, but it was part of the jarring experience, it went right hand in hand with the rumble and spitting sounds of the motor, the jostling of the turns and the buffeting of the rocky air beneath them. John was steering them along the verge of the final outcropping of trees – after that lay the rolling hills, the distant and winding road that lead away from the airfield and towards the city they had come from. The ride was smoother now, the rise to altitude complete, and Dave could have sworn he had the wings of an eagle, or at least John did. They swooped down, together, one entity with the plane and the purr of the motor, and they crossed over the nature, the dirt and the streams and far off, the farmers fields and the cows who did not have the mind to look up at them.

Cresting up over that, breaching onto the more urban territory, the plane flew them up over the tops of the high rise buildings, the tops of buildings he had never even thought he'd see before.

And suddenly, from behind the shelter of the goggles, keeping this precious sight safe, the world seemed so, so small.

The plane hung still a moment, letting him gaze down at the people and places and things that he knew, that he had known all his life – the things by which he was defined, the things that he had let shape him and mold him, that kept his bursts of energies and life contained in a tiny steel box, cramped and controlled.

And they couldn't touch him.

He was alive now, breathing air for the first time in his life and as he looked ahead, back at the nape of John's head, at the tousled mess of his hair long overdue for a cut, he saw his one source of air.

And the doubts he held in his own mind became clouds, vaporized into mist and floating, dashed into pieces by the propeller’s blades.

If this was how John saw his world, from up on high and airy, not a single care of the walking world weighing him down, then maybe, hope against hope, Dave could do the same. He let his arms press out against the wind, felt the power of the air, the drag of it on his muscles, and they passed out over the park, saw the spot they had sat at all that time ago, the ducks there and the loafs of bread they had forgotten to bring along, and there was nothing Dave wanted to do more than cry.

And so maybe he did.

His arms found the solidity of John's shoulders, his weight and his life, and to that he held tight. Dave closed his eyes, closed them from behind the goggles John had given him today and he cried because finally, things were beginning to make sense.

 

By the time they hit the ground and the wheels on the bottom of the plane came to a slow, easy halt, by the time Dave slid out of the plane on wobbly knees and had John clasp him on the back and laugh in his ear, by then, it was truly beginning to make sense.

Because life didn't have to be all about the things he couldn't have or the things he might lose. It wasn't about the sad partial endings, the isolated rain clouds in the valleys of darkness or the drops of wet tears on a letter from years ago, it wasn't any of that. It could be, but Dave had tried that path, he had walked down the road on his own and it had burned him right between the eyes.

He didn't want that for himself anymore. Because John had shown him, through awkward smiles and pats on the back and glasses of chocolate milk at three am, long after the more sensible patrons had left for the night, he had shown him that the negative things existed, yes, they had to, but the whole _point_ of life, the true goal there in this twirling spin cycle mess of a planet was to let go of all that, to let it drop away and see it spin as it fell, like maple seeds helicoptering down from a branch. And there, in watching them go, was the joy.

And that was the kind of life that Dave wanted to try out for himself.

He couldn't save his brother. He would never see his friend Mayor again. And maybe he might lose John too, one day, to death or accident or sickness or a terrible mix of those things. But he had him here now and he had his knowledge and his life, his exuberance and the sparkle in his eye. And to that he would hold fast.

As the both of them walked out back from the deserted airfield, John nattering on about the technicalities of flight and the way their propeller was functioning to give them speed, and as Dave politely pretended to listen, he thought that maybe he did need to hold onto John, in a much less literal sense than his hands clasped over his shoulders during a plane ride, or his arms holding him as they swayed to a song on the radio. If he could get him, claim him so to speak and have him, then maybe he wouldn't leave so soon. Maybe he could teach Dave a thing or two about the minute details of a careless smile, or how to give them out freely, without second guesses.

Maybe he could love him.

 


	12. Friday July 11, 1922

It was hard to wrap his head around, but soon after that, things almost seemed to get better. Dave scowled less and less at people walking into the bar, he stopped spending entire evenings and nights and mornings staring at the wall across from him vacantly, though he was still yet to cross the gap between the couch and his bed. Maybe he'd just never quite get over that – there was no way he could be in that room for longer than a few brief minutes before the grief over took him in a cascading wave of anxiety, and he'd only venture into there for a change of clothes and the occasional trip to water the one potted plant on his night stand that Jade had given him. Truthfully, he wanted to take the plant out of there and put it somewhere else, maybe in his kitchen or hell, even the bathroom, but the bedroom had the best window in the whole apartment, and Jade had instructed him to set it out by the place that got the most sunlight.

In a morbid sense of self punishment, he liked keeping it there. Forcing himself into the old bedroom of his made him move on, inch by slow, intolerable inch.

Maybe he'd just sell the bed and buy a new one. The idea had cropped up in his mind on more than one occasion, and the more he thought of it, the more he liked it. This bed didn't really hold any value in his mind anymore – instead of a memory of helping Mayor, it was just a bitter taste in his mouth, a failure and an awful bad time and a stupidly large quantity of soup. And he was trying to start letting go of all that.

He came to all his shifts again, not wanting to put too much strain on the girls and also finding that no matter how much he liked sitting at home for days on end, his bank account was getting growly in the stomach. Wary of how well he truly was compared with how well be claimed to be, Rose and Roxy were stubborn in their doubling up during his shifts, so he was never quite alone. He had a feeling that they were going to give it a rest soon – there was only so many times he could assure them that he was fine before they had to start paying attention.

John wasn't going to be coming in that night – he had told Dave the night before that he was running behind on some tests that a manufacturing company needed and his deadline would be on Saturday morning. Dave didn't quite mind at all, after all, he saw John nearly every day of the week nowadays, but even so, he had to admit that he liked being informed of John's schedule. It was comforting in a small sort of way to know that he would tell him if something came up, that he was still concerned for Dave's best interests and he'd do everything he could to keep his mind cleared of needless worries. Because John knew that Dave worried, not matter how many times he told him that worrying was the least cool thing he could possibly think of.

Even though he knew that John wouldn't be dropping by for his evening drink, Dave still found himself looking absently at the seats throughout the evening, at the seat that had once been Mayor's, as well as the one that had become John's. He wasn't wistful about it and he didn't sigh, daydreaming at the two chairs, but instead it was an acknowledgement, a quiet sort of reminder that yes, these chairs were empty, but for now he was going to be ok with that.

There was not a single thing though, that he could ever hide from Rose. She was more perceptive than even Dave could comprehend, picking up on subtle little changes in his mood or expression faster than he even noticed them in himself. She might have been psychic, though John was the only one who ever touted that in earnest.

"You've looked that way far more times than usual in the past few minutes, Dave," she informed him quietly, looking down to focus upon the fingernail she was picking at. Hangnails plagued her, apparently. They were her curse, she claimed.

Giving her a small glare, Dave shrugged as if he didn't care about her observations. Both of them knew that he did. "What's your point?"

"Are you waiting for someone? Your friend isn't here, unless you didn't notice."

She was being cheeky with him and he knew it, but he took the bait anyways, finding that talking about John was actually a favourable idea. That was certainly a new concept to him.

"I know he's not," he muttered, leaning his butt back against the counter, arms folded against his stiffly ironed shirt. Defensive. Mindful of that, he uncrossed his arms, set them palms down on the counter rim. Fidgeting. "I can still look at an empty pair of seats, can't I?" He also took note of the fact that she said "friend" in singular. Precise, subtly guiding the conversation. Manipulative girl.

"Not much to see there, don't you think?" Rose tilted her head forward an inch or so as she spoke, bobbing it towards him, fishing for some clues. He was not going to fall for that – he knew her tricks by now.

Even so, he shrugged, and then looked at the floor for a second as he thought.

"Lots to think about though." Shit. She wanted to talk about thinking, didn't she? This was awful. Dave was awful. Shit.

Wait.

Didn't he want to talk about John?

Yes and no. Yes for the john part, no for the feelings part. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that just yet.

Rose hummed and let the topic momentarily drop, instead leafing through a catalogue from the spirit company they ordered from frequently. "Do you think we need anymore Sleeman stock? I swear we just topped up last week, but that brand seems to go so fast."

Change of tact. Dave knew these tricks.

He also knew he'd fall for them again and again.

"Yeah, probably. Having some extra in reserve can't hurt – we have room for more." Dave shrugged and leaned over towards her to look at the listing she was eyeing. "May as well."

She looked up at him, her inquisitive eyes probing at him for a moment until they seemed to find the right thing within their sights. Once those two things lined up, she smirked demurely.

"What?" he asked warily. This was not his element, not matter how much he tried to bluff his way through the subversive manner Rose possessed. Uncharted territory, so much potential to fail. Terrifying.

"Do you know you've been smiling an awful lot lately? It's downright criminal for a man like yourself, Strider. Ought to keep an eye on that – it might run away with you and your reputation will forever after be ruined."

"What reputation?" he pressed carefully, brows setting forward, lips tugged meticulously into a slight scowl.

"I suppose it doesn’t quite matter anymore," Rose replied breezily, clearly enjoying the view as she watched him trying to keep pace. "John's seemed to squash the last vestiges of your permanent foul mood, hasn't he?"

So this was again about John. He should have seen this coming.

"Don't know what you mean, Lalonde. John didn't do a damn thing to me."

She hummed, obviously not buying his fib, and looked down at the counter top, finger tracing small circles in the polished surface with the tip of her shaped, delicately painted violet nail. The sound was a keel, scraping against silence.

"It seems that even if you were right, that you've done a number on him in return." He was on the verge of interjecting, cutting and explaining that _no_ , he certainly wasn't one to change his friends, but she pressed on fearlessly. "Not that I could know for sure, of course. I only met him a day or so after you did, and I suspect that by then the change had already been set into motion. The man acts quickly, you know. He doesn't like wasting time on things like that. Things like this, as well, I'd assume."

Quirking his brow, Dave let her go on without giving her the grace of his baited question.

"Things like you wasting time with _tell_ ing him anything." Rose wore an expression that was clearly impatient, eyes wide and expectant, mouth twisted into an on purpose confused look.

"I don't have anything to tell him."

"Oh, will you just stop playing dumb already?" she asked, giving him a hard look. The sudden intensity of it actually got him a little surprised and he took a small step back, suddenly thankful that no one else was in the bar to see or hear that.

Dave wasn't sure how to reply to that, but it seemed that Rose had it covered and she pressed onwards, though considerably less forceful.

"It's as clear as daylight to anyone with eyes that you two are so much more than friends. We saw it in the early days, remember the club? That was definitely a planned meeting – Roxy and I were trying to get you to come to terms with your feelings then. And I'm glad that you two are so close now as friends, trust me, I really am. That is so important, Dave, and I am so glad that you've found that. But if we all think that maybe there is more to it, why don't you just give it a chance already and come off your terrified child act for once?"

He certainly didn't know how to react to that and for a long time Dave just stared at her, thinking her words over and not letting a single emotion show.

"I'm not terrified," he finally said in a tiny voice.

"Yes, Dave, you are!" she said, exasperated and tired and pitied. "Do you fancy John or not? Think of him in his underwear or whatever it is you boys do when you think someone is desirable?"

For some reason, he stiffened at that. "We don't only think of people in their skivvies."

Letting her forehead be held up by her fingers, spread and positioned evenly at points on her skull, Rose sighed.

"Dave. Please just answer the question. Do you want to take your friendship with John and make it something more?"

"No," was his immediate answer. Rose gave him a stare and he faltered, crumbling like old mortar under delicate fingers. "Maybe. Hell, I don't know."

"If it just so happened to work out that way, would you be opposed to the notion?"

Dave took his time with answering, but the word was already on his lips before he thought it over. "No. Not at all."

"So what exactly is stopping you from perusing him?"

"I don't know!" he defended, feeling himself get heated in the situation, desperately trying to understand his own thoughts before Rose picked them clean apart like the ribs of a chicken, stripped and eaten of the flesh and laid out, one by one, disjointed and on a plate. "I'm comfortable with how things are right now. It's fine."

"Is it?"

He found himself hating her for a moment. Of course it wasn't fine. "Yes. It is."

"So if John just so happened to, well, perhaps find himself a girl to dote on, perhaps to court her, would you take offence to that?"

This was a trick question and Dave knew it and his reply was as equally stuttered and confused as his own mind was. "What, no, why would I be? The guy can do what he likes with his love life."

"Do you want to be part of his love life?" Rose asked, smiling at him knowingly.

"No."

"Have you thought about it before?"

He was flustered and confused and so, so out of his element, and letting out a harsh breath, Dave spoke for the first time that evening flat out, plainly and blunt and simple.

"Yes. I've thought about bringing him flowers at the door and little boxes of chocolates on Valentines and taking him on walks like a lost goddamn dog, and yes, I've even thought of him in his underwear, so is any of that such a crime? I'm just thinking it! Its not like I’m going out and buying him a gold wedding ring for crissakes! We're just friends and that's how we're going to stay. There's nothing else to it that I should do."

Rose was quiet for a long time, looking at him, eventually nodding slowly. Soon, she set the catalogue on the counter, no longer occupied by it in the slightest.

"What do you think John would say to all of that?"

"Why would I ever tell him?"

"I suspect that John has more of a head on his shoulders than you give him account for. It's likely that he's already figured such things out by now. You're not very subtle with your affections, you know."

For now, Dave ignored the small jab at how he conducted himself around John, since he was more than aware how his self control seemed to fly out the window when he saw that idiot scruffy man smile at him. Instead, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand.

"Rose, even if the guy has caught on yet, then what's the problem? If he wants to make it more than he can, but seeing as he hasn't made a move yet, he probably doesn't even care. Me pushing it is just dumb as anything – I'm just going to ruin what we already have. I don't want to lose him."

"Ah. So that's it." Rose nodded, crossing her arms purposely.

"What's it?"

"You're afraid of loosing him. That's understandable, given your history." Reeling, Dave did his utmost to quell this particular topic, but Rose feared no one. "But have you ever stopped to consider that maybe he feels just the same as you do? Granted, John's situation is a trifle more complicated than your own – "

" _His_ is more complicated?" Dave sputtered.

"I wasn't done explaining. If he happens to feel the same concerning you as you feel for him, then John has little other option than to bide his time and wait for you to take the first step. It isn't an option for him to leap first. You're forgetting how the last time he tried to intervene in your affairs and take you out for dinner when you wouldn't leave Mayor's side, you blamed him for a rather serious outcome, which arguably was not even in his control. Think about it, Dave, if the last time he made an attempt to further your relationship someone _died_ and he was blamed – _by you –_ do you honestly think he'd going to be doing it again any time soon, and on a much more ambitious attempt?"

Dave was quiet for a moment, blinking at her. He hadn't thought of it that way.

"I don't even know if he's interested. The guy doesn't give me any clues."

"He gives you plenty," Rose assured, patting him on the forearm and turning to check at the till and count the change. Following after her in a mixture of apprehension and confusion, Dave leaned against a different spot on the counter, closer to her.

"How do you mean?"

"Ah, really? You don't pick up on these things? I swear, Dave, you need to stop paying so much attention to your own thoughts and give other people a gander."

"I'll gander however much I want to gander. Tell me what he does."

"It's just everything, Dave. Don't you notice how he smiles the most when he looks at you? Or how his jokes get even cornier when you play along in his games, or the fact that he walks a little too close to you when you're on the sidewalks?"

"Sidewalks are narrow."

"They're not narrow enough to excuse him nearly putting his hand in your pocket."

"Maybe you got a bit of a point."

Smiling warmly now, Rose placed her hands on Dave's folded ones and gave him a real, earnest look. "Trust me Dave. It won't hurt anything if you talk to him about it. You don't need to, I know, but give it some though? I can't help but think you'll just waste the relationship away if you don't let it become what both of you want it to be. Just talk to him."

 


	13. Sunday July 13, 1922

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it, folks.

The rain was a fickle, undependable thing, it seemed. At times it harboured out a mind of its own, casting winds about like nets thrown into fish ridden waters, tiding in slews of soggy leaves and bits of trash in its return. It rearranged floral gardens and threw hunks of mud and grit into window panes. It almost possessed a certain coherence if it was violent enough, collecting a consciousness with the intent to create as much damage as possible, as if it had aims and goals, desires and fears. Quieter rains, the ones that pattered against the wood of front doors and politely asked to come in through leaky roofs and whistling chimneys were the kinds of rain that Dave could tolerate, but still didn't quite like.

Rain made things soggy and miserable. It made the bottoms of his pants turn sodden when he walked down the sidewalk, it upturned his umbrella and tugged at his clothes, turned itself into a street mugger with intent only for his life. Rain was, in Dave's opinion at least, a thing that needed to be tolerated and passed over as quickly as possible, not dwelt upon. It was something like the pulling of a bad tooth, or visits to a particularly tiresome aunt. Required discomfort.

But then sometimes, he found a sort of solace in the din of it all. The invigorating smell of fresh rain hitting wet pavement, or the musical notes of drops of water hitting his window pane as he slept were things that did not need toleration, things that he needn't turn his attention from to save himself the pain. The rain washed away the old, kept out staleness.

In a way, he loved rain. He supposed he had that sort of love hate relationship with more things than he had once realized.

The last week or so had been drenched in downpour, washing away the residual dregs of spring and welcoming in the heat of summer along with the steamed, muggy nights when rain came down aglow in the streetlights. Dave had hoped, prayed, consulted any fortune teller he could get his sights on, even resorted to checking the weekly forecast in the newspaper, but there was no luck. The deluge would continue for the rest of the week, on and off, on and off, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

That upset him in a way. It made planning things hard and it made everything just a little more hectic, tossing in a small dash of confusion in the delicate mix of his plans.

Because he had been planning things, and now, faced with the execution of them, he was utterly terrified. Anything that could potentially ruin his half baked plans was definitely not appreciated.

One thing he didn't have to worry about in his plans was talking to John over the phone. He was so incredibly easy to converse with that way, which was really an incredible feat since Dave absolutely did not like speaking on the telephone to anyone at all. His hands got sweaty on the receiver and he didn't like the stress of ringing up the operator, telling her the address and  _ no, this was not the third time he had tried to connect to the Egbert household and then hung up before the call had connected, just shut up, that was not him, he doesn't know what you're talking about _ . 

He played it cool though, obviously.

Regardless of how he acted, John still laughed at him as he introduced himself with the chalky smooth style he had come to adopt on telephones.

_hey there, hot stuff, remember me?_

_dave? pft, shut up. what do you want?_

As if that wasn't enough smooth talking to leave John baffled on his knees, the next words he said were probably so supremely cool that John didn't even see the invite coming, hardly even recognizable amongst all the overwhelming layers of charisma.

_so what do you say to you and me going out on a nice, long romantic stroll? i'll bring the charm, don't worry, all you gotta bring is yourself._

_dave, please. we all know i am the one here with more charm. it's all in the smile!_

_look, do you want to go somewhere with me or not?_

_sure, i guess. where?_

_it's a surprise, moron. just drop by my place around 6._

_tomorrow? do you want me to bring an umbrella? it's been raining a lot –_

_nah, the rain should let off for a while. we'll be fine._

John showed up at his door at 5:45 the next day, rain spattering down off the skin of his opened umbrella and skittering into Dave's face. He was smiling, and even though Dave had long since forgotten to think of strangling him, he did get the idea that he wanted to wipe that look off his face all the same. Instead of investing his energies in that line of thought, he made sure his pockets were stuffed according to plan and not bulging  _ too _ badly under the amount of junk he held in there, and then ducked out with him. 

John was good enough company to share the umbrella, the both of them walking down the sidewalks and ignoring his car for now. He had offered to drive them wherever Dave was planning, but he had insisted that it really was not important, and besides, walking was half of the fun of this outrageous outing he had planned. At that, John definitely did laugh in his face, since Dave had been grumbling for weeks about having to walk to every damn place in the city when he didn't have John available to act as chauffeur.

Despite his claims to it being a surprise, their destination became steadily more and more apparent as they walked, the paths Dave chose both familiar and reminiscent of a night, several months ago, when they had been barely acquainted with one another and John had kept nattering on mindlessly to fill the awkwardness between them. This time around was different. There was no awkwardness, no pulsing desires to gut the other man and leave him for dead in a dark alley, not even a sense of irritating silence pervading their walk. John didn't say anything to let him know that he knew where they were headed, but his step did get a little more springy, a little more enthusiastic as he dodged puddles on the walk.

John was probably a lot less nervous than he was. At least Dave could keep that feeling under wraps, for once thankful of his practice in not letting too many emotions slip into his body language.

They entered the park, rainy, quiet, earth muffling their steps, the pine trees and the broad leaves of the maples and birch dampening the sound of the rain, enveloping them, peeling off the noise from the roadside and leaving them in a realm of isolation, left all alone with the sun setting from behind several thick layers of clouds. The park was largely empty, no one venturing out into it during the rain, and no strollers were out, not walkers or canes or leashes of dogs. Only the coo of pigeons greeted them, the whispering of trees talking to the wind. Both of them began to move as one, both knowing explicitly in which direction to head. They were no longer one following after the other, but instead now a pair, equals.

Veering off into the smaller off-shoot to the pond, John bumped his shoulder giddily into Dave's, a small grin on his face, not even bothered to be covered up. He was excited, obviously, but for what Dave was not entirely sure. Could he tell? No way was he really  _ that _ perceptive. Rose was right in saying that he didn't give him quite enough credit, but Dave himself hardly even knew what they were coming over here to do, he had not a single clue how John could have pieced it together on his own. There was not a single chance.

They walked to their old bench and Dave wiped off the wetness gathering on the metal rungs, taking off his jacket to lay it over the seat. He was going to be cold without his overcoat he supposed, but when they sat down, John pressed his arm up next to him, sharing body heat. Dave's arm felt plenty warmer than the rest of his body did, pleasantly so. He considered pressing his leg against John's as well, but that seemed like a little too much, no matter how cold he was.

"Did you want to talk about something?" John asked simply, holding the umbrella up between them and giving Dave a curious look. His eyes seemed too bright, too blue for the darkness of the sky, the cold drizzle and the trees that swayed darkly behind him, and Dave wanted the sky to look like his eyes, limitless and vibrant and alive.

Instead of giving a straight answer, Dave reached into his pants pockets and pulled out most of the bulk there, revealing a scrunched up paper bag, creased and folded in several places from its home in his pocket. He didn't let John ask him what was in it, since before he had a chance to speak, Dave was already pulling out a few slices of dry toast, passing some over to John's free hand and leaving the rest in the bag.

A surprised chuckle caught his attention and he frowned, confused.

"Dave, you doofus," John smiled, taking the bread from him and ripping off a crumbly little piece. "I can't believe you sometimes."

His frown deepened, growing worried, and for a moment Dave pulled away from the contact with John's shoulder. "What? What's wrong with this?"

"Nothing," he assured, bumping their arms together again and smiling. "This is good. It's just funny that you thought of all the details to this so well."

Ears beginning to burn at the tips, Dave looked down at the damp brown bag in his hands and John plunked a piece of bread into the pond, trying to catch the attention of the ducks on the west side. They drifted around, paying the effort little mind at all. Both of them waited in silence for a few moments, watching the ducks bob and float in contentment.

John wasn't eager to break the silence and he waited whole minutes, looking at the stretched fabric of his umbrella overhead, his face pensive and drawn out, the sparkle in his eyes just for the moment hidden, concealed. What he said next made little sense to Dave.

"My friend used to like chocolate milk. He was this guy in my squadron, right? He never drank with the other guys, but he was a whole lot of fun and he always stuck around, but with a glass of chocolate milk instead. I don't know, but he was just really fun to be around. He was great, you know. Everyone loved him and no one knew why. I tried writing him a few letters after we all went our own ways, but either they never got to him or he never wrote back. I have no idea where he is now."

His lips slackened into a small gape, Dave looked John over, as if checking for cracks on the sides of a glass that suddenly left wet marks on a tabletop. John drew a breath through his nose, deep and harsh, and then he looked at the crumbs in his open palm.

"I don't know why I just said that," he admitted, a nervous laugh bubbling up to cover his err. "That's why I drink chocolate milk so much. You asked me, before, and that's why. I figured I owe it to you to tell you. And jeez, you probably think I'm upset or something, or that I'm going to start crying all over you and –"

"John."

He blinked, taken from his babbling abruptly, and his eyes were wide and expressive and so, so lost as they bore into Dave's.

Dave realized he had been staring, his face sagged into something sombre, and he swallowed before continuing. "I don't mind if you cry, I don't. You let me do it, after all." It was a small thing to say, simple and plain, but that seemed to be the thing that sent the cracks spiralling out across John's glass surface, shattering and swirling geometric shapes into his skin. He choked on his words, and then looked down again.

"I know."

The tears were a terse event, arriving and welling at his eyes, but they weren't enough to fall from his cheeks, there wasn't even enough to wet his hand much as he reached up to wipe the dampness away. Dave was quiet while he waited, sitting beside him and feeling the warmth come off of him, as if in soft, cascading waves.

After a moment, when John was sniffling away his slip up and closing his eyes to hide the red rimmed evidence, Dave broke off another piece of bread from his supply and pressed it into his palm.

It was small, but maybe it was enough.

John's long, calloused fingers closed around his, holding onto him gratefully for a second, and then took the bread and released a shaky sigh. Removing his hand again and letting it rest on his lap, Dave wetted his lips, chewing on them. He could feel himself turning watchful, careful.

"I'm sorry," he said pointlessly.

Shrugging, John wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, clinging onto the piece of bread. He shook his head, looked out over to the pond, where the ducks had finally found the one bit of bread floating. "It's ok. It was a long time ago and it's ok now. We all lose people, but it's still fine."

"It hurts though," he muttered, watching John toss his second bit of bread out into the pond. The ducks squabbled over it, fighting till one of them nabbed it, and then it was gone.

"A lot of things hurt. We all keep going through, don't we?" Looking up at Dave, John tried on a wane smile for size. The sight nearly broke his heart and Dave took his time before speaking again, staring at the indistinct shapes of grey and black and deep blue beyond the pond, looming figures of rain drenched trees that, he liked to think at least, were watching over them.

"Everyone I love dies," Dave admitted, slowly tearing a new nub off of the bread. The bread was softer on the inside, squishier, and he rolled it into a tight ball between thumb and forefinger. "And I just – I don't want to lose anyone anymore. I don't want to have to deal with the aftermath of that again. I don't want to lose you."

He passed over the squished wad of bread to John and their fingers brushed together again as they did so. Holding it, John looked at him carefully, examining him, and Dave looked back as if waiting for a verdict. They stared quietly for a few seconds, exchanging their own brands of silence, and then John just looked away with a huffed sigh, throwing the bread out past the ducks, making them swim frantically to grab it.

"I didn't want to lose you either, you know," he informed, staring at the ducks waggling their feathered tails and swimming in tight, small circles, searching for more bread bobbing in the water. Dusk had nearly set by now, the sun in the last vestiges of its decent. The rain poured on around them, an endless blanket of cold and damp. "That was why I tried so hard to stop you from... I don't know. You scared me for a while, after Mayor passed away. I didn't want to think about you having to go through all that junk alone. Because, hey, everyone dies, Dave. We both know that, I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. The whole world knows it. And when it happens to other people there isn't anything you can do but accept it. That's why I think I need to appreciate people more now, when I still can. I mean, I appreciated Mayor when he was alive, I really did. He was a good guy. And I'm glad that I did that while I could. I'm not going to have everyone whose in my life right now to stay there forever. People move on, I guess. Jade's not going to live with me forever. And maybe one day it'll just be me in a big old house with a lot of dead plants because I always forget to water them and if I don't make things right now, then I'm not going to do it later. I don't want to die with regrets, Dave. I want this life to have everything I got put into it, because if I don't then I just  _ nev _ er will. Do you know what I mean?" 

John looked up at him after he said that, the lines around his eyes questioning and soft.

"You're not going to die in an old house all alone, John," he assured with a scoff, "People love you too much. Hell,  _ I'd _ move in with you if you asked me to." 

That seemed to put him at rest, his familiar smile flowing back onto his face like cool water running down dry throats. Dave never wanted to see another expression on his face, ever again. He could just stay like that forever. "You just want to move in because I can cook a decent meal and you can't."

"I'm not gonna lie, that is a pretty major part of deciding."

A chuckle rose from John's chest, his cheeks rosy and welcoming and when he opened his eyes after the laugh, they were set on Dave's, solidly and pure, and turning his gaze away suddenly seemed impossible.

"Why don't you then?" John implored, quieter and excitedly, the air hanging around him of someone who's just asked if they were going to go out on an impromtu drive across the country in the search of rare finery, indulgences, delicacies. It was the quiet, breathless plea for an adventure. "Why don't you move in?"

"What would Jade think of my poor living standards? You've seen my apartment."

"She can stay in her room and we can stay in ours, then."

"We're sharing a room now, are we?" Dave smirked, raising both brows.

"As long as you don't steal blankets in my sleep," he grinned.

Smiling cockeyed right back, he leaned in and lowered his voice, secret telling under pillow forts, six year olds and lanterns under blankets, parents shushing from the other room. "I live to steal blankets, John, and your blanky is gonna be mine. It definitely has my name stitched into the hem and not yours."

Giggling not at all maturely at that, John held his gaze. It became noticeable to him that he didn't draw away, he didn't  turn his gaze to his hands or the bread pieces or even the ducks. He just stared at him for as long as he stared back. The rain battered against the umbrella, but it was a little lighter now, the sound of it not overwhelming, but background noise, white and cleansing. John's cheeks were getting darker the longer he looked and, taking a rapid swallow, Dave backed off, remembering an excuse for him to draw away. 

"I uh, I have something for you." Digging in his other pocket for a moment, his gaze fixated there, he missed the somewhat disappointed look cross John's face, the small huff he let out. It disappeared soon enough though, his curiosity lifted by the promise of a gift.

Dave fumbled around in his pocket, trying to get the bulky thing out of his pants, cursing under his breath until the metal finally tugged out, coming loose and falling into his palm. John snorting was not the response he had been hoping for and he regarded him worriedly, afraid that all of this was so terribly stupid.

"I can't believe you kept those!" he gushed, smiling and grabbing at them before Dave could even offer them properly. John flipped the metal and leather over in his hands, thumbing over the engraved marking on the straps, and then finally giving Dave a wide, genuine smile. There was nothing else rational to do in his mind other than smile right back, sheepish and glowing and just a little proud of himself for getting that big of a smile out of John.

Shrugging as nonchalantly as he could, he looked away for just a moment, collecting his thoughts. "They're just been sitting on my coffee table for..."

"A month?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"Dave, you big, ginormous nerd," he grinned, "You know I just use whatever goggles are lying around at work, right? You really didn't have to keep them all that time and then pass them off like this. I mean, gosh, that's really nice of you to do anyways." John smiled down wondrously at the straps curled in his fingers, twisting them slightly in his hold.

"Well, I don't know. They had your initials on them so I figured it was pretty important to get them back to you. Even if your blanky has my name on it now, I still gotta give you back your stuff. But while I had them, I mean, damn, don't think this is weird here, but they were kind of nice to have around, you know what I'm saying? They reminded me of you and how you just... you get  _ by _ . Even when life is an old bitch, you manage it, right? And I think, as stupid as it is to say it, they kind of got me by too for a while. It was nice to just... to think of you, I guess." 

John continued smiling bashfully down at his hands, knuckles and fingers wringing around the leather as he thought. Finally, after he looked at them for long enough, he abruptly passed them back into Dave's hands, pressing them there when he didn't hold onto them immediately.

"Take them," he instructed, his voice firm and undeniable, but still kept soft around the edges. It was a request, not a demand, but Dave found the notion of refusing to be difficult.

Baffled by the abrupt gesture, Dave hesitatingly took the goggles, but his questioning glance at John was enough to spur him into talking again.

"If they made you happy enough to keep going when you were at your worst, then I want you to keep them. Maybe one day I really won't be here anymore..." he added, flicking his eyes away for a second before looking back again, a fierceness in his gaze, new and alive and bolder than before. "And I want you to keep them then. Seriously, now. They're yours, alright? Just... just take them." He still had his hand there, held over Dave's and the goggles, forcing him to keep them, and slowly Dave's fingers curled around them in return. John let up a little, pulling his hand away and looking mutely pleased.

Dave held onto goggles, gradually tightening his hold till he was gripping them hard and he sighed shakily. The rain eased off more, turning into a drizzle, barely pattering on the umbrella anymore. John kept holding it up above them.

"Thank you." It was simple, and it was plain, but he knew that it was enough by the way John's expression loosened.

"Don't mention it," he said, taking some bread from Dave again and tossing it, lightly and casually, over to the ducks. He didn't bother to look at them after the wad of food landed – his eyes were focused on Dave's. "Do what you want with them, Dave. Really, I mean it. Maybe you'll meet someone really special, give them to them. That would be nice of you."

Dave frowned, his look incredulous as he inspected him. "Who the hell would I give them to? If anyone, it'd be you, and I can't very well just push them back to you like a game of mad hot potato."

Only smiling at this, soft and warm, pressed into his arm still, John nodded. He had a sort of stare-like quality to his gaze, not willing to let go of the hostage he held on Dave's eyes, not daring to release them to look at anything else. He licked at his lips once, and Dave's chest was sent into overdrive, pumping suddenly faster than he even thought to be possible. He was terrified and his grip tightened around the goggles he held, and John looked just as uncertain, but he was slowly leaning in against him, steadfast, reassuring.

"Then keep them," he instructed under his breath.

Dave's gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips once, twice, and then his eyes were closed shut tight and he was blind, waiting, terrified, waiting, _terrified_ ,

 

and then not.

 

It was cold outside with the rain finally stopping and the wind slowing down, and the sun was set and the clouds were thick in the air, but John's lips were so warm against his, his breath was hot, Dave's skin burning where it pressed into his. It wasn't much at all of a kiss, it was simple and plain and it was terribly uncomplicated to have taken that long to finally do, but the only description Dave could have come up with as he pulled back was _perfect._

John was flushed a deep red and he looked horribly embarrassed as he blinked at Dave afterwards, smiling nervously. Dave let go of the bread in his lap, let go of the goggles and forgot about all of that, and instead let his hand curl around the nape of John's neck, careful and delicate, hardly even touching him. He had nothing left to do but laugh, giddily and nervous and all of the red in John's face multiplied by a hundred, and then John laughed back. The permanent crinkles set next to his eyes tipped off his lingering smile and for a moment, Dave thought that maybe he had the same kind of smile on his own face.

That felt good.

That felt right.

That was where he wanted to be from now on.

John was looking up at the sky, at the dark sky and the lack of rain on his umbrella and the pressing quietness of the park around them, and he smiled. The ducks quacked softly to themselves, sharing secrets, whispering tales of far off places where the princess gets saved by the prince, and snippets of good news, things passed along to make days go by seamlessly and nights slip on unawares. Closing the umbrella, unnecessary now, he took the final two pieces of bread from Dave's lap and tossed them into the pond.

The ducks scrambled among themselves and raced for the victory of the treat, quacking and fluttering their wings in the haste to win the prize, to get to the end, to be the top, the best, the last one standing. If viewed from a distance, in the far away, rain-drenched path that led out of the park, out of the quiet isolation of this secret place, an onlooker would only see the huff of the birds there, only see the main attraction. They would miss out entirely on the sight of two people, perched on a lonely bench with a handful of soggy bread on their laps, who were growing heavily invested in the hopefulness of love and their sudden infatuation with the notion of each others kiss.

They would miss that, because it wasn't theirs to see.

[It's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQBbgXm4W1E) a private thing, really, when someone decides to reroute their path to follow anothers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to say some things, because I like talking.   
> First of all, hi! This is late. This is incredibly late. This is the latest I've been for this fic yet. But I have good news, and that news is that I will never be late for an update on this particular fic ever again in my life.   
> (This is the part where I mention I may or may not be planning a bonus chapter or two, and that I probably will never get around to writing them, but then again I just might do them because I kind of am itching to write a smut for this AU. It's a good AU for smut, really.)  
> Also, please, please, definitely click that link up there in the final line. It's a good song and it's where my title came from. 
> 
>  
> 
> Now that the serious parts are out of the way:  
> WOW. Ok, so I just finished a fic? I feel pretty good. A hundred billion thank-you's to everyone who liked it enough to kudo or comment or whatever it was that you did, you are great. Like I mentioned, I have some more for this AU that might become a thing, so stick around for that and stay hopeful, but I'm also planning about 3 other stories in the meantime. Are they all JohnDave? You bet your shipping butt they are. 
> 
> Like always, if you ever want to find me on tumblr, my url is quackquackdontdocrack (Also, please, if you want me to see something, don't use my tag. It doesn't work!) 
> 
> Bye!


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